Another Unlikely Divergence of the Soul
by TQS
Summary: I loved her before I ever loved Christine...and she is to blame for my humanity and the calamities it brought upon the Opera Populaire. EG, EC, RC still painfully indecisive! because it is everyone's tragedy, and nothing is yet determined. Favours dark E
1. Author's Note

Author's Note

Welcome to my storey. A few things about this fanfic: it's long. Possibly slow. I have over a hundred and sixty pages of it written so far, and each chapter will encompass anywhere from two to five pages each. I have tried very hard to keep each person in character, and I will tell you now, it is EXHAUSTING—especially with Erik. What a complex person he is! I am hoping to show great character development throughout.

And please: if you do review (which thrills me more than I can even put into words), there is one thing I ask, which would for some reason prove very helpful to me. _If you have a favourite line or lines, I would appreciate it beyond description if you would let me know which line(s) most effected you_. Thank you, so much!

Oh, and another thing—I am usually an extremely careful speller, but I have decided (even though I am an American) to use the European spelling of several words and terms, like story/storey, maneuver/manoevre, traveled/travelled, favor/favour, eager/eagre, and others. I just think the European way looks much more authentic for a tale such as this. Very beautiful.

Enjoy, please.


	2. Pain does not go unrequited

**Erik**

My heart is breaking.

I know it is breaking, because now that I have acknowledged its presence it never leaves my consciousness, and I am discerning of its every movement. She fears me. She has feared me ever since she rescued me from that hellish circus, looked upon the tragedy that was my face, saw how I murdered Lombardi with my bare hands.

"_You will call me Madame,_"she said.

"_But you're not married._"

"_That makes no difference to me. I am older than you and you will show respect._" Then she smiled, to soften the reprimand.

She craved that authority over me because she fears me.

Naturally.

"Curse you," I whisper.

…

**Madeleine**

"I cannot explain this to you, Armande," I insisted, just above a murmur.

"Please, Madeleine. Please, let me help you."

There came silence; stiff, ironic silence, but I could feel the gratitude, and even submission, in my next words. _Submission_. "I am frightened. I am frightened of…ghosts."

"Ghosts, Madeleine?"

I said nothing.

"The Opera Ghost, you mean?"

Within my chest I could feel my breath return. "No, not him," I said sharply, deceptively confident. "I mean to say, there is no such thing as the Opera Ghost…but there is such great pain here, and I do not know how…."

"Hush," came his gentle reply. "Don't be frightened, my darling."

Darling…words I hadn't thought I'd ever hear, or _let_ myself hear.

"Armande." There was no harshness in my address, and the sudden flourish of emotions stunned me for a moment, and broke into my voice through a rambling tirade of reluctant assent. "Armande, I can't…I cannot cling to memories or guilt. I must forget about Henri—no, Henri is dead, and I will never have him back, regardless of how I want…regardless of anything! I cannot listen to the music any longer or I shall never—"

"Music, my dear?"

"Music, voices, memories, everything," I continued, my voice trembling. _His music_, I wanted to shout. I had seen his face and still allowed myself to hear his music, but now I needed to escape it. I could not save him. I could not have him.

My eyes were burning, and my heart was in my throat.

"I'll take you from this place, Madeleine. I don't know what kind of ghosts haunt you here, and perhaps you'll never tell me; but if I can save you from them then I will go to any lengths to do so."

But he would hate me forever.

"I have nowhere to go, Armande." I was suddenly afraid that I might weep. _Weep?_ For years I had not even shed a tear that stemmed from emotion. What did that mean? "The Opera is my home, my family, and I am a dancer."

"How much longer will you dance until your leg gives way again? You find your family amongst the chorus girls and ballerinas? Do you prefer a dorm and a cot to a real house, with a garden and a kitchen and a fireplace?"

My leg. My dancing. All of my thoughts focused on _him_. Him, who I cursed silently. The ruin of my leg was his fault, after he had thrown me to the ground in the midst of his raging jealousy.

He'd always known I had never forgiven him of it.

I was silent in my thoughts for only a moment, and I stared up at Armande, into his beautiful hazel eyes. "Where would I find such a home?"

"With me, Madeleine. With me. I want you to marry me. I love you, and I want to rescue you, just as you would rescue me from a life of loneliness."

My fists clenched and my nails dug into my palms with both the hope and the fear that had plagued my spirit ever since I'd met the man standing before me. "I don't _want_ you to pity me, Armande."

"It's not because of pity I ask. It's because I want to spend the rest of my life with you!" I heard his sincere pleas, and I wanted to believe them—so _terribly_. "Say you'll marry me. Say you love me."

The fears of my heart found their way to my lips. "I don't know if I could leave," I choked out. "There are…things…that would keep me here forever."

"Of your own will?"

_Yes!_

"No!" I cried, and my voice lowered. "_And_ yes." Every hair on my body stood on end. "Oh, I don't know! I don't know what to do! I love the music that would chain me to this place, and what frightens me is that I would stay bound willingly if I did not have you!" My admission made my head spin, and without realising it, the words left me. "I need you, I need you to help me! I need you!"

I collapsed into dry heaves, trying desperately to swallow back my tears at the same time that the wells behind my eyes begged for release. His arms came around me, and he stroked my hair and my back. "Then come with me. As soon as you can, Madeleine. Bid your ghosts farewell and leave them behind forever."

My head began to ache, and I realised just how fiercely my jaw was clenched. Tears at last broke upon me, and I nodded, consenting my finality, begging my soul to understand. "I will try. I promise, I will try."

God, help me.

…

**Erik**

My lips part for a heavy breath that will not make its way past my throat, and I close my eyes, sinking to the floor under the weight of my deadness. My mind is a torrential mess with the words I am hearing. She belongs to me, then, but she fears me more—she fears me so much that she will give her love to _him_. I put my face in my hands, and feel the massive scarring against my right palm.

She did not scold him for laying such words of flattery upon her amenable state, did not reject his fancy promises, and that terrifies me. I have had no idea she could ever be so defenseless; she's never shown me anything of vulnerability.

My tears begin to fall…stemming from a broken heart. It has been breaking, slowly and irrevocably, since their conversation began, and I am either foolish or wise to have listened to it. Madame _is_ leaving me, then, as I have feared she would do ever since she brought me to the opera house.

I stand slowly, unsure what to do, what to think. My feet carry me into the hidden corridors between the dorms and the dressing rooms. Something in the numbness tells me that my mourning has already begun. I am not sure if I can accept the grief yet. No. Right now, I need my music, so I can forget.

I vaguely hear my footsteps echo in the dark passages and into the depths of the Opera. The way is second nature to me; I know so well where my trapdoors are strategically scattered that I can reach my destination with my eyes closed. Madame has never come with me. I am far too frightened that she will fall victim to one of the many traps, and I know it frightens her, too.

Her face is so endearing when she is scared.

I drift to a halfway cognizant stop at the edge of the lake. The mist swirls possessively around the gondola, and the water shimmers with candlelight. The acoustics of my underground house are like none other; the gentle lapping waves against the smooth stone can lull me to sleep and grant me dreams of beauty, beauty I may never claim.

I lower myself into the gondola, and set my thoughts on the organ that lies ahead in my house, and the music in which I can find peace. I do not play my organ often, because the enormously loud resonances yielded permeate the entire opera house; in fact I play it only when I _wish_ to instil fear in the residents' minds. At times it amuses me that I find tranquillity in haunting and the music that aides me in doing so. Today, however, I care nothing for haunting, but only for peace.

Peace, that I invest far too much faith in. Peace, that has always escaped me.

But then, a ghost is a soul that is never at rest.


	3. Prologue

There are two spots of light in my blackness. Through them I can see my hands, dirty from the chores of the day, and callused from the labours of the years. I can also see the little toy I have fabricated from a child's discarded blanket, and the silver chimes I've fashioned from littered bottle caps. It looks like the monkey Lombardi sports on his shoulder—in my mind, at least. In the overwhelming blackness that imprisons my face, the two spots of light that are the eyeholes also reveal to me my other prison: the mocking bars of my circus cage.

As much as the symbolism of light against darkness should ignite hope and affection within me, it does not; in fact, it ignites just the opposite. I hate the light. I hate it even more than I hate the darkness. The light serves only to remind me of my prison, and that another day has broken upon the evil of my life. I am not like other humans. Perhaps I am not human at all…perhaps I really am the child of Satan. Demons hate light as well, and I am deemed a Demon, against my own choosing.

It would be so much easier to be an Angel. My mother was an Angel—even her name suggested it. It is clear, then, why she hated me as she did.

I do not know how long I have been waiting. It is the calm before the storm. In these moments I am most at rest, though I know exactly what is in store for me. In these moments, I am alone. Lombardi is with the other Gypsies, and his monkey with him. My tent is empty, sheltering me, and lit only by a candle. Candlelight is the only light I find beauty in—the shadows it births distort everything, and everything is allowed to be an illusion. Even my face.

The noises are coming nearer. I hate them. When there is only silence, and emptiness, and me with my eyes closed against the candles, everything is right. But the noises are the beginning. I do not know how many years, though I could guess perhaps three, that this has been my life. If it is indeed three years, it is maddeningly clear that I should have grown accustomed to and un-bothered by the constant, daily, nightly attacks of the world against my visage. My mother once said she had grown hardened to me after awhile; it only makes sense that I grow hard to my own chains.

It is not to be done. Every time I hear the noises, my calm before the storm begins to dissipate. It is laughter that steals my joy; it is curious squealing that makes me quake in dreaded anticipation of the familiar, and it is the satisfied clanking of well-earned coins that begins the tears of anguish in my throat. It is the same every night, and I curse myself as these horrible manifestations start anew that I am not yet hardened.

"Come."

The deep, guttural voice I fear and hate beckons the world. I focus on my cloth monkey, stroking the frayed edges with my trembling fingers. Perhaps if I can hold onto him while—

"Come inside."

"Shut up," I whisper.

"Come and see…the Devil's Child."

I cringe at the name, closing my eyes as the curtain is drawn back. The noises soar as they find their way into my tent, eager and sadistic laughter mingling horribly with the dizzying carnival music behind them. A silver chime slips from my fingers, and I open my eyes to reach for it as the swirling notes berate my eardrums. I grasp it from the hay-scattered ground and fit it into the toy once more. Lombardi's voice drowns within the chaotic noise emanating from the wolf pack's mouths.

I hate myself.

A brief, sweeping glance is all I want to steal. I cannot explain what attracts me so much to their faces, other than their expressions in the sole moment as they look upon me without seeing my face. All I see—all I ever see—is apprehension, and morbid curiosity. At least it is not disgust. At least it is not fear. I turn my head sharply to take them in before closing my eyes. A moustache; freckles; a cleft chin; curls; rosy cheeks. My swift gaze encompasses each face and one defining characteristic. Sideburns; a solitary scar; a chipped tooth.

A sad, sad frown.

My eyes rest on her for a second longer. Tightly queued red-blonde hair, and a narrow, straight nose. Thin brows knit across her forehead, and tiny lips drawn down at the corners in distress.

She meets my eyes. My breath catches. I have never seen such a look before…so much so, that I cannot even place a word to it. My mind races through fleeting lists of vocabulary. Sorrow, yes, but more than that. Anger…not as much. Pity? Yes! Sympathy! Sympathy?

_Sympathy?_

My mouth parts, and I inhale the dusty scent of the bag over my head. I have never seen a sympathetic look before, so I cannot be sure. Surely it will vanish as soon as he uncovers my face. I bite at my bottom lip. I hate her. Because I know that she will not pity me for long.

Painfully, I turn back to the cloth monkey, and bring the chimes together.

The Gypsy master reaches for my covering. Without thinking, I shrink back from him, and throw my hands over my head. She can't see! What if she sees?

"Why, you wicked—"

My hand swoops and bats against his, all the while my mind knowing just how futile and dangerous such an action and such disobedience will prove. But I cannot let her see!

His large, dry hand clenches at my arm. I bite down on my lip hard as he yanks me from my sitting position, and my legs flail out beneath me. Inwardly my muscles clench, and I drop the monkey. The wooden baton meets my flesh with a sickening smack that sounds far more painful than it is. It should hurt more. But it does not, because I understand just how painless it is compared to what will most assuredly come next.

He hits me often, but never has he hit me in front of _them_.

In front of _her_.

Again and again the baton collides with my body, leaving fresh welts atop yesterday's bruises. My body flinches and retracts, and I hate myself for hating the physical pain, knowing that something far worse is in store for me. All the while, I can feel the eyes of the laughing crowd upon me, glued to my beaten flesh and mentally guessing at what lies beneath the sack. But more than that, I can feel her eyes—I can feel them. I do not look at her, but I can feel her watching me, and it shocks me that I can still feel her sympathy. I grit my teeth against another blow, and anger begins to heat within my bruised ribcage. She still pities me, now more than ever—I know it.

The beatings cease, and I am left heaving for air, and gasping at the pain a simple intake of breath induces. One look at the sympathetic face and my musings prove true. I cannot stand for her to see me like this, broken and humiliated. I cannot stand for her to feel sorry for me, because it is causing me to feel sorry for myself…as if I deserve such pity.

Lombardi's rough hand closes around the edge of the burlap sack. My heart drops to my stomach as the familiar dread swirls within the familiar anger…but there is something new. Horror. She cannot see my face. I cannot let her—and I cannot stop it. I don't deserve her pity, but I cannot stand to lose it. I close my eyes, unwilling to see any of their horrified, delighted faces—and especially not hers.

The burlap sack is ripped from my face. I feel the fresh, cool air against my dirty skin and inhale it deeply through my nose. Things are thrown at me, and laughter escapes from their eager mouths. I am devoured by their cruel pleasure, as I am devoured each time, and will be tomorrow as well. Tears spring to my eyes of their own accord, and the hatred of everything begins to focus on the hand that holds my hair. How dare he! How can he subject her to my face, after she has offered me the one gift I have never received or even dreamt of…compassion? How can he take that from me as well?

I bite down furiously at my teeth, and my fingers strain in the agony of her sympathy and their cruelty. I hate Lombardi more than I hate light. I hate him more than I hate myself. I want to tear off his fingers and gouge out his eyes, so I can find peace. I hate him.

At last, after nearly a minute being exposed to their terrible glares, he lets me go. My hand instinctively goes to the right side of my face, where I shield it from them all. _ I hate him. _I reach blindly for my sack, grasping it within my fingers. I hate him! My monkey lay forgotten at the edge of my cage. I hope she dies, and I hope he burns in Hell for making me hate her. _I hate him!_

There are two spots of light in my blackness. But they are not coloured white. They are fiery red.

Silver coins land noisily about me. One hits my elbow; another bounces off the top of my head. I don't care. I cannot concentrate. My eyes are on their feet as they turn, gleefully, to leave. I can see her, in her ballet stockings and shoes, but I will not look at her face. I cannot bear to see the change that I know is there—after that one look of compassion, both infernal and heavenly, I cannot now see it gone.

I hate Lombardi. More than anything in the world.

And he is in my cage, with his back to me.

There is no one else at all.

Rage, trembling rage, gives power to my fingers as he kneels to collect his traitor's commission. I hate this suffering. My hands tighten around the coil of rope that lies uselessly about the cage door. I can escape now, while he does not watch. I can disappear into the night, and easily take his gold with him.

But Lombardi will continue, with only the loss of a circus exhibit.

Silently, I pull the rope from the bars and twist it twice around my wrists. I will escape. But not without rectifying a timeless calamity.

Lombardi's large forme is still bent at the middle as he lusts after his money. The two holes of light that I despise so much aid me now. I do not make a sound, but my body trembles with anticipation and the chill of the night air on my sweat-ridden skin. I clench and unclench my hands around the rope as I approach him. There is no circus, and there are no crowds; there is only the rope, and he, and his mortality.

_I hate you_.

The adrenaline pulses through my veins as I effortlessly slip the rope around his thick, bearded neck. His forme straightens and bends backward as I pull, breathing through clenched teeth. _I hate you!_ He has tortured this Demon for too long; I marvel at myself as his terrified gasps rape the clear air. Why have I never thought to do this before? It is such a perfect solution to my elongated agony. But I _have_ thought to do this before, I realise. Perhaps I have merely lacked the courage.

Never. Courage has always been readily at hand. I have lacked the motivation.

I draw in steady breaths as he struggles for even one. His hands claw desperately at his neck, and I grin beneath my burlap sack. I did not think he would struggle, though it seems so natural that he would. He struggles against me? Against me! So this is what it feels like, then. This is what power feels like—for the first time in my life, I am the authority. I am privy to exploit a victim's life like I have never been before. My mind spins around one conclusion in fascination as his death becomes imminent in my grasp: I have always had the power. I have nearly needed the inspiration.

It is her look of compassion that fuels my anger long enough to thoroughly sever his life's breath. Memories of the cruel words, the beatings—and her sorrowful gaze of sympathy. I have tasted compassion, and I cannot think right because of it. I can only think to kill the beast before me, who is more of a monster than even myself.

One last jerk on the rope, and Lombardi's struggles cease. His heavy body is lifeless against the lasso around his neck, and I let him drop.

Next to his dead forme is my cloth monkey. I stoop to retrieve it, and finger it soundlessly—the echoes of death still permeate the still atmosphere of the tent. It is not so much different than life, really. Life is sometimes far worse a punishment than death. But not anymore. I smile a little at the lifeless face of the toy, and the large, popping eyes of the lifeless face of my Gypsy master.

And then, up into the horrified face of the girl.

I pause, and the realization of what I have just done cackles into my horrified conscience. I have killed a man, and she knows it. She watched me strangle him, with those sympathetic eyes, and she watched him die within his exhibit's cage. My body is frozen, and we stare at one another wordlessly.

I can kill her, too.

Her eyes are nearly wider than her mouth in her shock, and I realise I cannot. The sympathy has not fled her at all, a miraculous paradox of human nature. She has seen my face, but she is not disgusted—she is not afraid. I have never felt such astonishment in my life. I have tasted compassion, and I cannot think right because of it. I only know that I cannot ever lose that, or I will die.

Slowly she approaches my cage.

The door is open. I can escape.

I step forward, over the bearded mass of death and sin. We are only inches apart. She does not recoil.

The curtain swings back, and I look over her shoulder. A Gypsy man. My heart constricts in fear as I glance at Lombardi's dead body and back into his eyes. "Murder!" he screams, beckoning for help. "Murder!"

A hand grabs my wrist. It is the girl. I gape in shock and uncertainty, for I have never been touched by compassion before. The girl does not give me even a moment to hesitate in my disbelief. She pulls me out of the cage, and there is only my hand in hers, and I do not have time to reconsider a thing. We tear through the back curtain of the tent, leaving the dead Gypsy behind us. There is nothing, but the two spots of light, and the loud drafts of our heaving breath, and her hand leading me along.


	4. A useless plea and life anew

**Gustave**

"You know that that Giry gentleman plans to marry your friend Madeleine?"

Adele laughed, her sparkly laugh. I eyed her over my paper in the evening light quizzically. She shook her head. "I don't think Madeleine will ever give in to his advances. She's far too stubborn."

I smiled, setting the paper into my lap and smoothing it. "She's really not the motherly type, at any rate."

"You would be surprised. I would not put it past Armande to pursue her forever, though."

"Armande? That's his name?"

"It is," she said, bringing a steaming mug of tea in my direction. We were quite an unlikely couple—doing those things which most did in the morning directly before the sun set. "Armande Giry, a Populaire frequenter. I met him once. In fact, I think I was still with the _ballet de cour_ when he first took interest in her."

I took the mug and sipped, savouring the warmth as it extended through my veins. "I think marriage would do a lot to soften that colleague of yours—she isn't a great believer in love, is she?"

My wife smiled warmly. "She's always claimed she has other responsibilities. Of course, she doesn't have children, and her unfortunate injury denies her a career in ballet, so those _other_ responsibilities remain a mystery."

I lifted my shoulders in an indifferent shrug, reaching for my violin. It was a tradition; I always played for Adele as the sun set, so I could watch her with her eyes closed against the red-gold beams that stroked her lovely skin. I longed to one day do the same for my children…if I was ever meant to be a father. "Everything about that woman is a mystery. Everything about that whole _place_ is a mystery. You know how glad I am to see you away from there."

"Stop that," she chided playfully. "The Opera Ghost wasn't _dangerous_. He was just…mischievous. That's all."

I smirked up at her, running my hands over the strings, contemplating the unique, steely feel of them against the pads of my fingertips. "I hardly believe the mishaps to be blamed on some ghost. But the construction workers' scandal has always made me uneasy…and that persistent LaBrant who always—"

"Gustave, let's not bring that up again. The manager was far too interested in those who _returned_ his interest to have any dealings with me."

I nodded. "Sleaze of a man. Such a shame that he would turn a place of art and music into his own little cathouse."

"You always take such things so personally!"

My heart laughed; I merely grinned. "Music is my child, Adele."

"Well then," she continued, pursing her lips in a smile, "you will have to settle with your demons soon, because I hope to familiarise _our_ child with the Opera Populaire in due time."

I expected to see a wistful expression come over her features, but none came. In its stead, there was only a knowing smile, and a teasing glint in her pretty brown eyes—the same glint that I fell in love with years ago.

I furrowed my brow.

Adele's hands rested gently over her stomach. I followed their subtle movements with my eyes and glanced into hers again, imploringly. She nodded, her dimples deepening in her white cheeks.

"Oh, my darling," I cried, sweeping her into my arms, and spinning her around so that her laughter flew into every corner of the courtyard. A great clock chimed the hour, and I kissed my wife passionately as we spun to a halt. "After all this time," I breathed, and kissed her again. "After so long."

"My beloved Nightingale." I tightened my embrace as she endeared the loving term upon me. "If it is a boy, can we name him Charles?" she begged in her excitement, and her smooth blonde curls danced about her shoulders.

"Yes, yes, yes!" I spoke into her shoulder, inhaling the scent of wood and flowery soap. I would return the endearment, an accolade to her favourite storey. "We can name him _any_thing you want, my Rose."

"And if it's a girl," she said, her grin larger than I had seen it in immeasurable time, "we will name her after your mother."

I beamed at my Adele, brushing my lips against her eyelids. "Christine."

…

**Erik**

My fingers tremble as I dip the quill into the dark liquid. I had approached the organ gently, intent on finding rest and forgetfulness in the ivory keys, but my music and my emotions are often synonymous with one another. Three hours of furiously beating the chords out of the instrument have done nothing for me but heighten the premonition that I am about to lose the only soul I have ever cared for, and I know I must speak to her—quickly.

"Dearest Madame," I begin, speaking the words as I write them, to ensure that every last bits of tenderness and venom I feel will root themselves into my writing. "I regret to inform you that I am aware of your recent designs of utmost childish nature. You wish to rendezvous with one of the many suitors who frequent the Opera only to gawk at the dancers and feed their own insatiable lusts. I am obliged to warn you against such men and their vast promises of wealth and protection, for I have seen myself the broken hearts of the unfortunate ballerinas whom they flatter into submission. I ask only that—"

My hand stills its constrained etchings against the parchment. It is utter nonsense, what I have written, and Madame will see through it and just as quickly dismiss me. She knows the depths of my need for her, and uses it to her advantage often so I respect her as well. But I am about to lose her—and no amount of respect will keep me from doing everything I can to keep her.

"_Madeleine_," I force, beginning again on a new sheet. "My beautiful, beautiful Madeleine." I stop again, and before I fully realise what I am doing, the quill is sketching a bar, and a treble clef, and a string of notes begins to play itself out onto the parchment. Underneath the two lines of music I find myself writing the poetry that brims impatiently beneath my heart.

"_I owe my soul to you_

"_I'm only whole with you_

"_Standing beside me_

"_In your eyes the music summons_

"_Whispers so soft, forlorn_

"_Within me, songs unborn_

"_Cry, 'Let me love you'_

"_Say that you will_

"_Say that you love me too_."

I sing as I write, willing the ink to trap the gentle sound of my voice within the words before it dries. I continue to write, spent of _that_ emotion and ready to command her acquiescence. "You mustn't leave me, Madeleine." How good it feels to pen her name! "You will come to understand this in time." How will I close? Honestly? Can I write "Love, Erik," and be done with it?

No.

"Your obedient servant," I mutter through my teeth, knowing that she will recognise and appreciate the irony. "O.G."

The parchment folds easily in my hands after I allow the ink time to dry. I fit it into an envelope and hold it to my lips, touching it softly with a kiss that I quickly drown in hot, red wax. My seal is ominous—a skull—but she will recognise that the letter is from me.

…

**Madeleine**

I held the letter next to the candle, willing myself to let it slide into the bright yellow flame. It would not matter, though; I could never forget the contents. As long as I lived. They would always lurk in my mind.

He would always haunt me.

My door opened, and I pulled the letter away from the candle, whipping around to face the intruder. It was only Armande. "Your things are in the carriage," he said carefully, sensing my unease.

I nodded gratefully, and looked back at the letter. I couldn't burn it. Instead, I folded it into quarters and slipped it into my bodice.

"What is that?"

I stood, shaking. "A letter...wishing me farewell."

He was in the room with us; I could _feel_ him. Armande's presence did not allow him to reveal himself, and I felt much safer, much physically safer. I let my fiancé—what a terribly foreign word!—take me into his arms and lead me from the room, forcing thoughts of Erik far away from my present mind.

It would not be done, however. Moments later I stood in front of the carriage, willing myself to entre, but the power that had rooted me to the opera house from the beginning desperately clung to my skin and enticed me to remain. I shook my head, several times, screaming inwardly that _nothing_ good could come from returning to him. Even briefly, but my will was not strong.

_You will come to understand this in time._

I shuddered, knowing that I could not leave him like this. I had to see him once more, or it would destroy us both.

…

**Erik**

I cradle the picture in my hands. Madame's lovely face smiles up at me from beneath the glass. "You, too, would forsake me," I growl, the tears burning through my eyelids. "I am," I sneer bitterly, and my eyebrows rise in one accord with the corners of my mouth, "a fool to have ever thought you would not. You would love a fool just as soon as you would love a monster..." My voice catches, and her face becomes indistinct as my vision blurs, and my manufactured grin contorts with sobs. My fist presses against my mouth as my chest rises in heaves, and I bury myself within my cape so that not even the starlight can find me.

"Erik…."

The picture falls to the floor, and the familiar sound of shattering glass perfectly flourishes her low, refined voice; a crash of cymbals over a dark current of brass instruments. I stand with a start, flip my cape behind my shoulders, and strain to see her through my tears. At once I curse myself: I forgot my defenses, and even worse, was not alert enough to sense when she came in.

There is silence. I notice the way she trembles, and remember how frightened she is of me.

"I cannot put words to the anger you must be feeling," she says slowly.

I do not move.

She starts toward me. "You are only a child, Erik, so young! You couldn't understand what it is to love—"

"Love!" I turn from her, strangely calm. "No, I could never understand what it is to love. I've never been given the chance, have I?" Her eyes fall. I continue. "The only love I've ever known has gone unrequited." I realise that my mask is not on my face, and clench my teeth—I have made certain that she has not seen my face since the creation of this mask in particular. I stoop swiftly and lift the mask from the ground, toying with the eyehole, the weight of my heavy cloak bearing down protectively on my shoulders. I haven't always worn a mask around her; she is the one soul in my life who looks upon my face without terror. But it is this face…

I feel Madame's soft hand on my arm, and I lean into her small frame. Just as suddenly I rebuke myself for immediately reacting to the sensation of her touch. "I care for you, Erik, in a way I could never care for another. You are my most cherished." She pauses, and I notice, for the first time, that her hand, the hand that holds me, is shaking. Perhaps it has always shaken. "But Armande is the man I was meant to be with for the rest of my life."

I tense beneath the weight of her arm, and recoil suddenly, confusing even myself; my words come before I even feel them. "It was this face that betrayed me in my mother's arms, and it is this face that would _turn_ you from me now. No, you understand little of love, of true, unconditional love, Madame, and that is all you'll ever know." My hands shake as well as I stare at her, the beautiful face of the woman who once saved me, stirred real love within the heart I truly have. I lift the mask to my face and press it to my skin. "But God is _merciful_ to some, and you will never have to see this face again." Without another word, I jump from the rafters onto the flight below, and disappear into the dark corridors of the Opera.


	5. The consequences of change

**Gustave**

Her grip on my hand had weakened with every passing moment. I wondered if she could feel my pulse, as evidence of my wildly pounding heart. Against her breast lay our child, smiling with life, oblivious to the death's game having its play beneath her. I choked on a sob as I looked at my beloved Adele.

"She's so beautiful, Gustave," she breathed.

"Yes," I managed, forcing a smile. "She looks just like you."

"No," she whispered. "She looks just like you."

Christine's wide brown eyes were still unaccustomed to the world around her. She was all of three months old, and it was clear that she was eagre to discover what this life was all about. Already she responded to my violin, and my gentle lullabies. Her fist fell from her mouth, and a string of saliva trailed. Happily she giggled, and gently beat her palm into Adele's failing chest.

"She loves music." Adele took in a deep breath. "I knew she would."

Her yellow curls had gone limp and stuck around her face with perspiration. Her eternally rosy lips were colourless, her conventional white skin even paler. I had never loved her more. My beautiful wife was dying, and I could not stop it.

"At least," she forced, "I have given you a child."

"Shhh," I said, putting a finger to her lips, and I was struck at the dryness of them. My tears rolled silently down my cheeks. The white clock that I didn't want to buy, but she had loved so much, chimed the hour, undoubtedly the last hour she'd see. "Don't say…Adele—"

She coughed furiously, and small flecks of blood sprinkled her delicate chin and the thin blanket beneath her. The same blood that now coursed healthily through our child's veins. She would live on in her…she would live…. "Tell me a storey," she whispered as soon as the fit had subsided.

I turned from her, pressing a palm to my mouth, before looking at her again. "Which one, love?"

"The Rose and the Nightingale," was her instantaneous response. Her eyes averted to Christine's soft head. And though she needn't say it, she needn't remind me, she did: "That one is my favourite."

My brow had crinkled to such an extent that I was indifferently surprised that my eyes remained open. I could feel my horrible frown in my jaw, but I tried desperately to lift it, for her sake—though she must have known how much she was hurting me by dying. "The Rose…and the Nightingale."

She gave a brief smile, and her eyes closed. Now I could frown freely. "Sing it to me? It was always my favourite of yours."

_Oh, God, why is this happening?_ Our marriage had been flawed and perfect—a cliché, but so true! I, the musician, and she, the muse. I didn't want to think about the death that approached, only moments away; I could taste it on her breath, which drifted past my lips. She wanted me to sing for her. She wanted me to sing for her. I didn't want to let go of her hand, so I left my violin still on the floor. Swallowing several times, I opened my mouth to sing the fairy tale.

"_A lone Nightingale with feathers of brown_

"_Feathers of velveteen spring_

"_Was taking his flight on the lips of a draft_

"_Lips which did whisper and sing_

"_Accomp'ning his flight was a fanciful song_

"_Fanciful tale of mirth_

"_When thence opened forth from the flowers below_

"_Flowers of bright-coloured girth_

"_A lone satin Rose with petals of white_

"_Petals of satiny spring_

"_The lone Nightingale did fall then in love_

"_Fall then quite beak over wing_."

Her hand tightened on mine, and on a shallow breath she whispered, "My Nightingale." Her arm fell loosely from Christine's back, and silence ensued, until it was broken by Christine's gay laughter. My voice failed at the horror of my laughing daughter and my dead wife…_oh, God, why? _Even before I had finished her song! Her ears had ceased to hear, her mind had ceased to understand. Her heart had ceased to beat.

The nurse lifted Christine from her still breast.

I fell forward until my head rested atop her stiff body, and my arms circled her. I wept into her gown, kissing the collar and staining my mouth with her blood, wetting her neck with my tears. I wanted to be one with her—even in death. "I will never, my Rose, I will never stop loving you." My sobs choked my voice from my throat.

…

**Madame Giry**

I stared wordlessly up at the great expanse of the Opera Populaire.

Marguerite squealed in my arms.

"Would you like assistance with your luggage, Madame?"

I turned to the footman and nodded my thanks.

He disappeared into the opera house with my things. It wasn't much—only a few garments and small trinkets given to me by my husband. Pictures, and jewellery, and a few toiletries. I had taken nothing after the annulment; I had wanted nothing from Armande anymore. He hadn't hurt me. Perhaps he had never had anything of mine to hurt. Instead, as he begged me to forgive him, I had said one thing: "There is nothing I can do for you."

Those words had killed his spirit.

I felt nothing as I left my then-husband that day, felt nothing as I looked into the lowered eyes of his mistress, and watched him kiss Meg goodbye. He had said something to me of visiting his daughter, and wanting to see me as well; I had felt nothing, though perhaps I had nodded.

His death, though, spurred deep emotions within me that I hadn't known were there.

"God, give me strength," I murmured.

I was finally here. I was at last about to entre into the place I had run from, and willingly so; in fact, it had been the only thing on my mind since I first learned of my husband's unfaithfulness. It was the last thing I wanted, but the only thing I could think to do. And here I was. Again, forever.

_He_ was there, waiting.

He always had been.

…

**Erik**

Her red-blonde hair is matted, and rain slides down her cheeks like tears. She looks for me. For any sign of me. I will never forget this moment.

She has come _back_ to me.

My manager is eagre. "Has my ballet mistress arrived?" LaBrant has awaited her arrival for a week. His anxiousness vexes me. I have awaited her arrival for two years.

The footman nods. "She's just outside, Monsieur."

"Good!" LaBrant claps happily, and fairly skips to the grand doors. "Why Madame Giry!" He rushes down the steps to greet her. She starts and glances at him, and I smile at her obvious state. "What are you doing out here? I can't have you get sick, not on your first day."

His anxiousness not only vexes me, but concerns me as well. If he has any designs to bed her like he has half the other dancing girls, I will kill him.

"Monsieur LaBrant," she acknowledges. "It's a pleasure to reacquaint with you."

The chill granted me from the rain is nothing compared to the chill that curves through my skeleton at the mere sound of her voice.

"The pleasure is mine," my manager announces, ushering her inside. The pleasure is neither of _theirs_, of course. She enters before him, cautiously, and her gaze sweeps the interior. "Madame Yvette would be pleased to know that you have decided to succeed her."

Madeleine says nothing. It is possible she suspects. It is possible she suspects both of their deaths.

No matter. She is here.

An awkward silence ensues. "Well then…if you would kindly follow me to my office, I have some business that needs discussing."

"Indeed, Monsieur," she says, and M LaBrant calls for a nurse to care for her child. Instead, my new ballet mistress shakes her head fervently. "No, please. I will keep her in my presence."

I sit up straight, defiantly, and smirk at her.

LaBrant eyes her funnily, and nods his consent. "Very well."

She tightens her hold on the little girl, and follows him into his office.

"It's you I want," I whisper. "Your child has nothing to fear."


	6. My curious Madeleine

**Madame Giry**

It had been three days. Three uneventful days, that should therefore have been filled with peace and level-headedness, had my life been normal.

Three days that I suffered, glancing over my shoulder at every turn and investigating my closet every night. I did not dare let Meg out of my vision, nor did I approach the rafters or the darker corners of the Opera. I stayed in the light, and in the company of other people, who feared the Ghost in all their naïveté and thought they understood why I feared him as well.

It was the fourth day that M LaBrant called me into his office.

"Look at this," he insisted, jovial and crimson-cheeked beneath his white moustache. "Our Phantom fellow remembers you."

My heart thumped loudly in my chest, and I wondered if he could hear it. "I want nothing to do with your superstitions. Good day, Monsieur."

"No, no Madame, please…I think he'd be pleased if you were to read this."

His request released my reservation. Hesitantly I took the note from him, expertly disguising my unease as impatience.

"_My gracious manager, I will take this opportunity to thank you for your excellent choice of a ballet mistress. Her reinstatement and promotion is well-deserved. And now, onto much more exciting matters—particularly the travesty we theatre-owners call the brass ensemble._"

I would not read anymore. I handed him back the note without meeting his eyes, busying myself with my child, but I felt his questioning gaze upon me.

"A great deal has happened since you were here last," he said. "Besides the obvious and unfortunate passing of Madame Yvette, I am sure you have heard of the great Willem di Renaldi."

I nodded slightly.

"It seems our Ghost hasn't a liking for him as much as I have, but the remarkable tenor's been bringing in _loads_ of money…and that appeases O.G. more than anything else, as we well know."

Indeed.

"Monsieur LaBrant," I interrupted, "I have students to attend to."

The manager nodded, all business for a half a moment. "Of course. Give my regards to La Sorelli, would you? And tell her those stretches you have them do are working in her favour." He winked, and chuckled happily.

I caught his meaning, and gave him a full glare of disgust. Things had not changed since I had been here last. Erik was still greedy, LaBrant was still a womaniser, and Sorelli was still a sleaze. It was a wonder Erik liked him so much; for all the reason he ever once invoked before taking a man's life, LaBrant should have been fit for his lasso long ago.

I turned to leave his office, but he called after me. "Madame Giry…I have a favour to ask of you."

"What is it?" I sighed, exasperated.

He slowly fingered a lone envelope and smiled at it before glancing at me again. "Could you kindly take this letter to the seamstresses? They are located in the north wing, in the old ballet quarters."

I furrowed my brow and took the letter from him.

"You do recall where that is, do you not?"

I did not even grant him a nod. "You would do well to remember that I have not been gone so long."

He smiled beneath the white hair of his upper lip. "Thank you, Madame."

Without another word, clutching the envelope in one hand and my daughter in the other, I disappeared through the door. I did not want to know his business with the seamstresses; I did not want to do him any favours. I especially did not want to visit any part of the opera house that demanded distance and solitude.

The marriage of distance and solitude was a deadly union, of course.

Meg was asleep, regardless of my brisk pace. I had admonished myself time after time for bringing her here, for it was no longer myself that I worried for. There was nothing that could keep me from this place any longer. But clearly it was stupid and dangerous to have brought my daughter into this mess with me.

What else could I have done?

The dusty gas lights above seemed to lesson in luminosity as the corridors stretched further and further from the stage and lobby. Sounds eventually diminished, and all I heard were the quick, steady cracks of my feet against the wood floor. The north wing was approaching. I quickened my stride, eagre to find myself back into the company of other people.

A set of double-doors loomed in front of me. They _loomed_, indeed, plainly because of my own anxiety. I hesitated, hearing no sounds from within to calm my fretful wits, and opened them.

The hallway opened up into a great quarter, which was neatly separated into eight stations; each was filled with racks of flowing cloth of every texture and colour, and yards of ribbon and rope spiralled around great poles. Sketchbooks lay open, next to spinning wheels with half-spun costumes and mannequins hung with measuring tape. Eight cots, eight vanities, and eight desks sat unoccupied.

The whole quarter was dark. The seamstresses were not _here_.

I glared at the note and cursed M LaBrant through a groan for sending me to this quarter so carelessly. Spinning on my heel, I made toward the doors—which shut, of a ghostly accord, in front of me.

I paused, sucking back my breath.

Only the lamp above the doors was lit. I huddled within the light, fervently pondering the suspiciously-orchestrated convenience of the vacant quarter and LaBrant's oily smile—and the Phantom's silence thus-far. The envelope I held was entirely blank, except…I held it up closely to the light, my eyes studying the small words written in red at the top: _Thank you, my good manager_.

It _was_ him, and it was a trap. With my teeth I clamped the edge of the envelope, and I tore the top from my mouth. One-handed, trembling, I shook the note out of the remainder of the envelope and straightened it against the door.

Five words, in red.

_Welcome back, my curious Madeleine_.

I flung the parchment to the floor and whipped around, staring about madly. One-by-one, the lanterns at each station were internally touched by a glow, and as the long room was teasingly illuminated, my eyes strained to study the appearance of a black shadow toward the end.

The shadow moved, slowly, in my direction. The dim light revealed his black cravat and sienna vest, and the glowing white leather of his mask. My lips fell apart as a soundless gasp escaped my throat. His appearance was as tall and unapproachable as it had always been, with thick black hair oiled well and slicked behind his ears, and his olive skin flickered between faint golden light and fleeting shadows.

I felt the hard wood of the door press against my shoulders. Without realising it, I had backed away from him.

His storming blue-green eyes were not watching me, though. My mind fought desperately to determine where his gaze landed, and just as he stopped, inches from my arms, I understood: he was staring at Meg.

My arms did not tighten around her as they should have. My whole body was paralysed with an unnamed emotion as my eyes remained glued to his forme. His lips drew in steady breaths as he stared at the little golden-haired child, and he held out his arms in a slight, rounded shape.

I did not think of what he was implying; I only stared at him, all rational thoughts having been abandoned to horrific observation. His physical appearance was the same, and surely he was the same soul. Having known him since he was only a child, and that he cared for me, nature told me that I should not fear him. But nature was a foul perspective after all of the wisdom and experience I had gained from those years, which now begged of me to turn around and flee his presence.

My horrible mistake of returning to the Opera Populaire was at last clear to every aspect of my being.

"Is this his child?" Every nerve in my body hummed at the first hint of his impossibly deep, carefully administered baritone.

I felt my head nod.

His arms were still open in a receiving gesture. Before I could decipher what his intentions were, he had slipped his gloved hands into my grasp and closed them around Meg's little forme.

"No," I whispered, tightening my grip on her, and my mind cleared instantly at the almost-feel of his hands, and his sudden reality.

His hands jerked back. He looked at me for the first time, and my breath caught at his deep green, troubled gaze. "Madeleine, don't fear me."

Something in my resolve began to weaken at the plea in his voice—he was yet that same broken boy I had left. Slowly, I released my fierce hold on Meg's little body, and relinquished her into his unsure hands. His mouth opened in something that could not honestly be called a smile, and he gently held her before him. Worry pounded within my heart, but my mind began to calm as I watched him handle her with greater care than he had ever handled me.

"Her name is Meg," I whispered.

He cautiously pressed her back into my arms, and I held her protectively. "I will not let my anger rule me in her case. You and your daughter will always be safe here." His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, and the words in his eyes reminded me just how much he wished he could touch me.

I nodded my gratitude, but could find nothing to say.

The Phantom took a step back, and then another, before turning around and slowly vanishing into the shadowed recesses of the room.

I stood frozen for a half of a minute before flinging the doors open and running through the dark corridor, my heart's racing rhythm accompanying my every step. And with every step, I cursed myself for behaving in such a childish, frightened manner, and not simply walking from that place with my chin high and strides sure and a complete façade of control.

It didn't stop me from running, of course.

…

**LaBrant**

I did hope he had no ill-intent with the woman.

I sighed, twirling my glasses about the surface of my desk. It had been his demand that I send her off to the seamstresses' quarters with the note, and I had not asked what was in it, or why.

The Ghost had always been a bit of a fascination of mine. I had only been the manager of the Opera Populaire for three years when the first signs of him began to show themselves. For the most part, he was agreeable, albeit mischievous. There were always those times when he would grow restless and terrorise the residents, especially our leading tenor, but it wasn't often that I would categorise him as _dangerous_.

Except, of course, when he was angry.

And he didn't seem to like construction teams.

I chuckled.


	7. Always so agreeable

A/N…I want to thank my beloved reviewers. As a favour, I always check out the fanfictions of those who have reviewed mine. You all have absolutely no idea how much they mean to me, unless you yourself are authors of fanfiction, and have experienced that joy that you can't quite put words to when you see a new review in your box. It keeps me going. It's strange how important it is to get feedback on your writing—it's like a mother hearing compliments given to her child. Or something. Ha! Anyway, two things: For those who haven't read my author's note in the beginning, it would be very helpful to me if you'd tell me which was your favourite line(s) of the chapter. Second, the song Erik gave to Madame Giry in chapter 3 is to the tune of _Learn To Be Lonely_ (or _No One Would Listen_).

**Gustave**

"Papa! Papa, my scarf!" she cried, her hand tugging at mine furiously.

I looked down, and followed her outstretched arm toward the sea, where her mother's red scarf drifted over the little swells a few feet off the shore.

"I can't lose it! It was Mother's!"

My heart sank at the sight, even more quickly than the dampened red fringe of the garment. It had been Adele's favourite scarf…I had bought it for her before we were even married. She said it reminded her of rose petals in winter. She was always so poetic. "I am sorry, Christine. There is nothing we can do about it now."

She looked up at me, incredulity written in her features. "But we must save it! It will drown!"

I smiled fondly, sadly, at her, and squeezed her hand.

As soon as she saw that I was going to do nothing about it, she broke loose from me and ran toward the breaking waves.

"Christine! Christine, stop!" I called, sprinting after her. European water was dangerously frigid—especially against the fragile skin of a child. I easily caught up with my little girl, and pinned her struggling arms against me. She wailed her protests, and I did my best to calm her.

"Somebody!" she yelled, her generally sweet, quiet six-year-old voice suddenly reaching amazing dynamics. What a singer she would someday make! "Somebody save my scarf!"

But there was no one on the beach but us. No one…I glanced around in embarrassment…no one save a little boy in a grey sailor suit and his nanny.

"Boy!" Christine wailed. "Help me!"

I hushed her. "Pay her no mind…she is only upset," I tried to explain. Christine, however, bit my hand, and I yelped, but did not let her go. "Christine, you will stop this display at once," I demanded.

Christine collapsed in my arms, bawling. I knelt behind her and turned her around, and she clung to my neck. "It was Mother's," she wept. "It was Mother's, and now I shall forget her forever."

My heart wanted to break for her, but I was very good at appearing strong. "Hush, darling," I whispered to her. "I'll sing you a song."

She looked up at me, her tears streaming from the corners of her brown eyes into her equally brown curls. She hiccupped.

I opened my mouth to begin a lullaby, when a woman's piercing scream invaded my ear. Both Christine's and my eyes threw themselves in the direction of the silver-haired nanny, who had her hands up against her mouth, as the thin breeze tousled the ribbons of her bonnet.

I followed her gaze, and stood. The little boy had run into the sea. I swept Christine into my arms and thrust her into the nameless woman, who took her with a look of stunned confusion. What a storey this would make! Running once again through the sand, I leapt into the frothy waves after the boy. "_Oh_," I gasped. The water was a terrible shock as it bled through my heavy clothing and against my skin.

The little boy's fist grabbed up the dark red scarf, and with a shout of triumph, he disappeared beneath the surf. I was in great pain, but somehow a smile worked its way into my dripping features. Every nerve in my body standing on end, I reached into the dark blue-green sea and felt my hand close around a woollen collar.

A moment later, and the little boy and I were sloshing through a foot of water toward the beach, with a frigid wind nipping at our cheeks. My little Christine and the boy's nanny rushed toward us through the sand, and the grains flew up and stung at their skin and clung to their clothing.

"Raoul de Chagny, you will not ever do that again! Your father will have your _hide_ for such a display!"

I turned to Raoul, who looked up at me and grinned, his blue eyes twinkling. He stepped toward Christine and offered his hand, and the scarf, to her. "Here you are, Mademoiselle." Christine stared at him for only a moment before snatching away the scarf, nuzzling her face in the wet knitting. She beamed at the little boy.

I gave a congenial smile to his nanny and held out my hand. "Good evening, Madame. I am—"

"Gustave Daae," she gushed, and offered me her wrinkled white hand. I kissed her knuckles, smiling in humility. Though an artist could not survive by his talent alone, it was always such a flattery to be acknowledged. "It is an honour to meet you. I am Evita Reinard, governess to the little vicomte."

"A vicomte?" I marvelled, appearing impressed for the bold child's sake. "That explains your bravery…and your swashbuckling nobility."

The little blonde tilted his head modestly, and rivulets of water streamed down his face. "My father is the Comte Philippe de Chagny, Monsieur Daae. We are both fond admirers of yours."

I laughed at the adult-sounding little boy. "Then you are a true gentleman, if you are a lover of music." I hugged my arms, chilled, and stole a glance at my enamored child. "May I escort you to your carriage, Monsieur le Vicomte?"

"Oh, do," said the governess. "He'll catch his death out here."

"We can't have that," I added, and the four of us continued up the shore, with our high-class companions leading the way. Christine clung to my hand, shy as always. I would speak for her, lest she regret her reservation later. "How old are you, Vicomte?"

"Ten," he said proudly.

"Well, Christine," I said to my daughter, "it seems your hero is not much older than you at all!"

Christine blushed. "He is old. He is nearly an adult!"

Raoul giggled at this, as did Madame Reinard. She turned to me. "You have my gratitude, Monsieur, for fetching Raoul from the sea."

"And he has mine," I returned, "for fetching my late wife's scarf." The road came into view, where a grand carriage awaited. "I would hate for the little boy to catch a cold. I would give him my coat, but…." I held out my arms, letting the sea that dripped from it finish my sentence.

The old governess nodded in thanks. "I have warm clothes for him in the carriage. Come, Raoul…you will catch your death out here," she repeated.

"Yes, Ma'am." Raoul gave us one last smile before turning toward his carriage.

"Wait!"

The three of us looked down at little Christine. I smiled, confident at her confidence. She hesitated, and broke free from my hand, running until she was before Raoul. She beamed up at him, and he smiled proudly. "Monsieur," she greeted, curtsying. And then she motioned him down with a wiggle of her finger. He leant to lessen the few inches between them, and without another word, Christine stood on her toes and kissed his cheek.

He straightened and his hand flew to his face, and Christine yelped and scurried back in my direction.

I laughed and took her into my arms. Raoul made a face and grimaced at the hand that had wiped Christine's invisible gratitude from his cheek. Christine's face flushed with the cold and with giddiness, and she held her scarf to her lips.

As we made our way back toward the path that would lead us to the inn, the carriage passed us. The young vicomte draped himself out of the window, smiling at us. "Christine," he called. "Don't you lose your scarf again!"

His governess ushered him back into the safety of the carriage, and Christine buried her face in my wet coat.

…

**Erik**

My good manager, most curious of all men.

I stare at his profile and stately forme—despite the odd position I find him in now. He is an interesting specimen. I never liked his moustache. Under most circumstances, his age and his oiliness would prove far from desirable. Wealth, however, attracts the underprivileged women of this world with greater ferocity than a handsome smile or a charming laugh. Monsieur LaBrant has always exploited his wealth, and gathered about him closet whores wherever he chooses to exploit it.

I do hope he enjoyed the last woman who made love to him. It seems a proper requiem.

I am an unfortunate man to love a woman who has a daughter from another suitor. My promise not to harm the child still grates at my desire to, but I know deep within me, however reluctantly, that little Meg is safe from my wrath. Fleeting curses did enter my mind while I held her, for she is and will continue to be only a nuisance, but my understanding of Madeleine is that she loved her Henri and loves this little chit just as much. She finally has become a mother. Perhaps, now that she has been granted her wish, she will see me as a man and nothing else.

My thoughts centre themselves on the situation I have before me. Blast; now I must find a new manager.

LaBrant's eyelids are glued to his brow and his cheeks, exposing the white bulbs and tiny red veins beneath them. Death, it seems, is not as fascinating when it is observed from the curious eyes of a bystander. In fact, his lifeless forme appears nearly natural, and looking upon him gives me no great ardour of divine command over mortality. It is time for me to raise the grate.

"Obtuse man," I mutter at his unheeding ears, my hands callusing themselves on the counter-wheel. "You had always been so agreeable."

The grate lifts itself noisily out of the water, and my manager's body floats to the surface. His fingers are still excruciatingly entwined within the bars. I wonder at the pain of drowning, and if it is similar to strangulation. Both are due to a severing of oxygen flow, and both leave the skin purplish in colour. Understanding that I cannot fully credit myself with Yvette's death, it _still_ has not been long since I last took a man's life, albeit the first time in years due to a foolish promise once made to Madame. Therefore I am naturally curious and a bit resentful that the water trap stole his breath before I could.

I admit, however, I did not want him to die _yet_.

I lift his dripping and rigid body from the green water and touch his cold, leathery hands. If only he hadn't been so curious. He had always been so agreeable.


	8. With Death comes Music

**Christine**

"Promise?"

"I promise, sweet." He stroked my cheek, and my curls. "When you need him most, he will be there."

_Come now, Christine, smile_, I demanded myself, and laid my head on his blanket. It was so soft, like the fur of a rabbit. "You won't forget?"

"Never, Christine."

I was quite troubled, still. I trusted Father with all my heart, but why did he see fit to leave me? I still didn't think I understood! After all, Father had left several times before, and whenever Raoul's company was all of a sudden not enough, he always came back. I didn't think he would really _die_, like Mother. That would not be a wise thing to do! Raoul had moved to Nior, and I wasn't ever to see him again. Surely Papa knew I would be all alone if he left me for good.

The door opened—it was Father's ballet friend. The strict lady's hands came about my shoulders, but I did not shrug them off. I felt very safe, and very comfortable, with my new realisation that he would not die after all. "Sing me Lotte's Lullaby," I whispered into the blanket.

At first I thought he didn't hear me. Then the strict lady's voice said, "Christine, child, you know your father can no longer sing."

"Madeleine," Father said, holding up a hand. Why did his hand shake so? "It is all right. She must always remember."

I crawled into his lap. "You mean you'll really sing for me?"

His dark brown eyes were all red with tears, but he nodded and smiled anyway. How I loved his smile! "It won't sound like it used to."

I shook my head, grasping the back of his neck. I didn't care if he sounded like a croaking toad! I told him so.

He chuckled a bit and motioned to the door. "Look at the muses scampering away. They are leaving me."

I felt my mouth turn into a frown. For the past month he'd been seeing things that weren't even there, and insisting that I should see them as well. It scared me sometimes, for it was as if he really believed himself! Perhaps he was just that good of a storey-teller. But I still never saw anything, not even if I looked very hard. And I did try.

The strict lady laid a hand on his forehead in concern. Father turned his head to the side and she let her hand fall, and he coughed twice, and then cleared his throat. Giving me one more smile, he opened his mouth.

"_Angel of Music, Lotte's teacher_

"_Sing to me of glory_…."

He coughed again.

"_Angel of Music, come from Heaven_…."

I waited for him to continue, but instead, he only coughed. I took his hand and kissed his finger. "It's all right, Papa," I said. "You don't have to if it will make you sick. You can sing for me when you are all healthy again."

"Don't you see it Christine?" His face was ever so fervent. "Don't you see that the muses have left me? I was never given the Angel. If I was, he would never leave me. But look at my muses." His beautiful eyes began to shine with new tears, and the strict lady left the room, her hand covering her mouth. What a strange woman, indeed! "They are leaving me, just like Adele. Such naughty little things."

I leant my head into his neck, and closed my eyes.

"You won't leave me, will you, Christine?"

I shook my head, feeling his jaw move against my scalp. "Never."

"Promise?"

Why did just the sound of his voice make me want to cry? "I promise, Father."

"I love you," he whispered.

"I love you too," I whispered back. And then I fell asleep.

…

**Gustave**

A slight, cold draft floated beneath my nostrils.

I wasn't dead yet, then.

I didn't want to open my eyes. I could still feel Christine against my chest, and briefly I remembered that she was in the same position when Adele died—resting over her failing heart, as she now rested over mine. It nearly made me laugh. I should wait to die until she is out of the room, at least.

A soft creaking came up from the floor beside me. Perhaps one of my muses had returned. That would be a lovely thing. Then I could finish Christine's song. I turned my head slowly and allowed my eyes to open.

"Shhh," said the apparition, lifting a finger to its lips, and it pointed to the sleeping child on my chest.

Who was she? I stared intently at her dark curls. No recognition came. I vaguely remembered that I was sick…yes, I was sick, and had been told often that I would begin to forget, and that I was already seeing things. Of course I was seeing things. Perhaps the rest of them were sick for _not_ seeing them.

The apparition spoke again. It did not look like any of my muses. It had only half a face. "Are you in pain?"

I thought for a moment, and nodded my head as my nerves lit themselves on fire. I hadn't even felt the pain until the spirit mentioned it.

The apparition seemed to kneel. It was a great thing, all darkness and a half of a face. "Your wife is waiting for you."

I furrowed my brow at the thing. "You must be the Angel of Death," I whispered, and a sudden memory of a smiling wife glanced across my mind. My smiling wife. My Adele. The Angel of Death would take me to her.

Angels were said to have that special kind of laughter, that kind that was so beautiful it made flowers blossom, but clearly the Angel of Death was an exception. "Is it Death you have summoned?"

Perhaps my brow had un-furrowed, for it furrowed again. "Which are you instead?"

"Don't you recognize me, Gustave? I am the Angel of Music."

I smiled. Of course it was. It was here because I promised Christine. _Christine_. The little girl on my chest was Christine. Obviously! Had my sickness made me forget so much? The white pain licked at my gut. "You are here for my daughter, then, and not for me."

The Angel was silent for a few seconds. "Your wife is waiting for you," it repeated.

"And Christine is waiting for you," I returned, and thoughts of music filled my senses. She would always be safe.

The Angel seemed to hover at my bedside. "You never told your little girl who I was."

The accusation stunned me, but I was very numb to emotion. "I told her everything about you."

"No, Gustave. You never told her that Music brings Death, did you?"

The half of the face seemed to glow. "I didn't know."

"And you never told her that the Angel of Music shares a soul with the Angel of Death." Two hands, two very human hands, appeared from the Angel's darkness. "I am here for you as well."

Was it fear, or relief that flooded my body? "You will stay with Christine."

"I will," it said, and the hands that had appeared grasped the pillow behind my head and pulled it forth. Once again it hushed me, and though it had only half a face, I briefly noticed two glowing green eyes. "You will not want to wake her, Gustave. Death is not such a terrible thing." Slowly, the night-darkened whiteness of the pillow came toward my face. "In fact," it whispered, "death is the most beautiful…creation…of all."

I smiled into the softness as it pressed against my lips. Beautiful.

"Christine is mine."

I parted my lips against the weight to breathe in, but nothing came.

"_Christine_," came the musical voice of the Angel of Death.

My arms were too weak to move, but my heart raced as if it had all the strength in the world. Panic gripped me as my fingers gripped the sheets, and I opened my mouth wider, gnawing at the fabric of the pillow. _I can't breathe_. "Christine!" I tried to shout, as reality awakened my mind and erased my illness-induced fantasies. There was no Angel of Music! What had I done?

"Do not struggle." My heart constricted at the voice of the madman. "You will wake my child."

…

**Christine**

It was a good dream. In fact, it was more than a dream; it was a memory! Raoul and I were in the attic, only a few weeks after he rescued my scarf. My, he looked so handsome in Father's hat! I blushed as he read a storey aloud to me, standing and thrusting out an imaginary sword at an imaginary enemy while balancing the book with his right hand. I clapped happily.

"And then the Angel of Music came and swept the princess off her feet," he cried, scooping me into his arms. The book fell to the grey, wooden floor.

I shrieked and flailed my hands. "That isn't what the book says!"

Raoul laughed, and the hat fell into his eyes. How truly silly he looked! "But I think it is a better ending; don't you?"

We sat on a dusty chest. "I suppose. But the Angel of Music doesn't have arms, and he is surely too busy, teaching Lotte, to rescue a princess!"

"You can sing better than Lotte ever could."

"Raoul de Chagny, don't you ever say that again!" I scolded. "_I_ have _never_ been visited by the Angel of Music."

And then he laughed, as if he didn't believe me! Raoul was far too serious at times. "Well, Little Lotte, I am sure one day you will; and then I will have no place in your life at all."

"That's not true," I argued, and took his hand. Sometimes he pretended to be jealous of the Angel, for the Angel took up all of my thoughts. "Raoul, you will always be my best friend in the whole world. You have my heart."

Raoul took Father's hat off of his head and placed it onto mine. I couldn't see a thing! I desperately reached up and pushed the hat backwards on my hand. Raoul was on one knee before me. I giggled.

"Christine Daae, I should marry you right now."

"Oh, Raoul, don't be silly," I said. How forward of him! At least, that is what Father would have said.

He smiled at me. "Well, maybe someday then."

I opened my eyes, feeling coldness beneath me. I was so very uncomfortable. The darkness made it hard to see much. Why, I wasn't in my room at all!

I looked down. Father was sleeping peacefully, and my hand was tucked inside of his. That was funny; I could not remember taking his hand before going to sleep. I closed my eyes and buried myself into his chest again, for I was still very tired. I lay quiet for a few moments, waiting for the rise and fall of Father's chest to lull me into sleep. But he was still.

I pressed my ear further into his chest. Where was his heartbeat?

A horrible pain spread in my gut. I rose to all fours, pulling my hand out of his tight, cold grasp, and feeling along his chest, and then his neck for a pulse. There was none! "Father!" I shouted. I pounded at his chest and put my hands on his cheeks. He was silent, and so cold.

He was…_dead_.

_I wonder if Mother looked so frightened when she died, and if I should as well when it is my turn._

Papa.

I scrambled off of the bed, and I tripped, scraping my forehead badly on the floor. _Father is dead! _ Father couldn't be dead! He couldn't leave me all alone like that! My breath whooshed from me, and my hot tears flew from my eyes as I scurried to the corner. _No!_ Father wouldn't just die! I wrapped my arms around my knees, all sorts of horrible thoughts and terrors coming into my mind.

Great footsteps pounded outside of the door as I gasped for air and wailed into the night. Doctor Rene! He could help! The strict lady stood in front of me as Doctor Rene ran to Father's bedside. I knew what I had to do. I shrieked at him to help, and the lady lifted me into her arms. No! I had to stay with Father! I promised _never_ to leave him. "Papa!" But she wouldn't listen. She carried me from the room, pressing my mouth into her shoulder to hush me, but I wouldn't be hushed.

"_Father!_" I screamed, but he did not hear me. He had run off, to catch up with his muses.


	9. The reason why

**Erik**

It was mercy. I am capable of mercy.

The smoke that spins from the tip of the orange flame now twirls between my fingers, and breaks apart in the cool air above it.

Then, it wasn't _only_ mercy. Perhaps I am not capable of a completely selfless act. Gustave's death served more than one purpose that night.

It began as selfish. I was impatient. Madame had been gone for far too long. She is very careful to burn her letters after she has read them, but surely she knows I always find them before they ever cross her hands. It is simple, really; I effortlessly remove the seal without breaking it, and when I am through, I re-seal it with two drops of hot wax of the same colour. It is impossible to tell that the envelope's secret has been revealed to prying eyes, but Madame knows that things are not always as they seem.

This letter came two weeks prior. I remember the last time she received a letter of this particular seal—it was seven years before, and it brought news of the death of an old ballet friend, who had left a widower and a little girl. Christine. The name was of no consequence to me then, as Madame Giry made no allusions to her. But this most recent letter heralded the widower's nearing death, and the need for guardianship, as Daae did not want little Christine to suffer an orphanage.

My dear, typical Madame. You always want to be the heroine.

There was Henri, and then there was me. Both charges have failed her; Henri is dead, and I am untouchable. Madeleine loves her Meg, but Meg is different. Meg needed no rescuing, as I did, as Henri did, and as Christine now does.

Little does my beloved know that Christine is not hers to rescue at all.

They were selfish motives that spurred me first. Madame had been gone for far too long—nearly a week and a half, and I was restless. I had memorised the content of her letter and knew her whereabouts, and as a rare occasion I left my opera house to pursue her. For a full day I concealed myself in Daae's house, learning all I could of his condition and of Madame Giry's intentions. The doctor gave him a week; I knew that was far too great a period for me to be absent, and I could not tolerate another day without my Madeleine's presence. Only her presence, of course. We never speak. Our only correspondence is composed of my letters, and her meaningful gazes up into the dark rafters, since she returned to me. But now, M Armande Giry is dead. And as much as my pretence hints that I can be no more indifferent to her, we both know the truth, and the truth is otherwise.

I knew that the world would not suffer for lack of a week of Gustave's life, and I could end it quickly—relieve him of his pain—and have Madame Giry back in my Opera the next evening, and the little girl with her. Of course, the half of me that opposes such dealings would not let me be at peace with myself, and thus my attentions focused on the child. Somewhere deep within me there is compassion for her, and the doctor's diagnosis assured that in the days before his death he would forget her entirely. I remember clearly the agony of a parent who looks at you in such a way, a single look which makes your heart pause in pain. My mother often pretended to have no recognition of me, and would say, "Who are you? You are not my child. Leave me alone, you do not belong to me. You are not _mine_."

Perhaps those words are what began to kill me. I knew then that I could not let Christine experience the same from her father, her father who loved her because she was beautiful, as surely she was. I would end his life before he could start to forget, and thus end her prolonged agony. It did not occur to me then that she would have wanted every last minute she could have with him, as I suppose I realise now, but at the time such reasoning pleased both halves of my soul and I was free to make Gustave die, by my own means.

It was not entirely selfish, then. It was mercy, as well.

"Seven years old, and not a relation in the world," the loutish curtain-master Buquet said to the chorus girls. "The great Daae didn't remarry after his wife died, to a pity. Madame Giry never was one to turn a cold shoulder, despite that wicked exterior."

I still have not seen Christine's face. Her head was deeply buried within her father's coverlet when I could finally see them, and she was in his room during my whole stay at the Daae residence. I await her appearance now. What is the bloody time, besides? I glance at the clock. An hour past midnight. Where is my Madeleine? I've been waiting up for her since before dawn, sitting here unmoving in the rafters above the dorms. I want to see her age-tainted beauty once more before shutting myself away again, indeed, but more than that, I want to see the face of the child she'll be bringing with her. Perhaps she will look like her father. Perhaps I will never forget his face.

For years I have watched Meg grow into a lovely little girl, and I have both wished she was my own, and loathed her for being his, Armande's. But Christine will be different. Before taking Monsieur Daae's last breath from him, I had my mind made. Christine will not be Gustave's; she will not be Madeleine's. She will be mine. She will not belong to Madame _Giry_—how I _hate_ referring to her as such. She will belong only to the Opera, and everything within the Opera is mine. If I am ever to win Madame back, it will be through this child. My child.

Madeleine has _never_ trusted me. I will make her see.

Footsteps resonate down the hallway. A great door creaks. I sit alert and diminish the candle, closely watching as Madeleine walks through, with two little girls at her side; one, the blonde, petite Meg, and the other the brunette Christine, slightly older than she. I watch her intently. She does look like her father. She is his very image, his very face. She has the definite angles of his face, though rounded by the softness of childhood. The circles of her eyes—his eyes—survey her surroundings with cautious wonder. Her chestnut curls (_those_ I recognize) are tied behind her neck, but one has fallen loose, and is swept into her eyes with every step. I smile at the thought of her growing into a stunning young woman, but I know my pride is premature. I haven't yet even properly met the child, much less claimed her for my own.

I must learn more about her father's Angel of Music. His state was halfway delirious as he promised her such a ridiculous blessing, but it would be a crime to leave her with a memory of her father not only dying and crazy, but a liar as well. She sings, they say. Her father was a remarkable talent. I have heard of him. Not only have I heard of him, but I heard him when he tried to sing to his daughter. His voice was weak and harshened by his affliction, but beneath the mess I found true talent, as I have not recognised in a long, long time. His daughter has his face. Perhaps she will have his voice. If she has a voice anything like little Meg's, I know I can train it. The sole reason I haven't taken Meg is the fear that Madeleine will never forgive me. But if I were to have this little Daae girl, and show Madame what I can make of her…perhaps she will….

I blink these thoughts away. _Not now_, I tell myself. Later, I will ponder them, after I have found out more about the little girl.

"Where's Papa's Angel?"

Christine has spoken. Her voice is sweet and childlike, her enquiry no doubt confusing Madame. I lean down a bit more to listen.

"Angel, child?" replies Madame Giry in her delicate lilt.

"He said he'd find me," says she.

Madeleine stops them, and takes both of the child's hands. "He said who would find you, Christine?"

"The Herald of Music," I whisper carefully, letting a rare smile soften my features. As the whisper emerges, though, the little girl turns her curly head in my direction, her eyes searching the darkness. I start and fall back into the shadows, my heart pounding. Has she seen me? I was a fool to speak. Phantoms can only preserve their invisibility through their silence. I will reveal myself to Christine in due time; but now, I am only here to listen.

Madame Giry's eyes wander above to the rafters. I watch them keenly, sure I cannot be seen. The confusion her gaze holds makes me grin. Without any doubt, she knows I am here; I am always watching her. But I take pleasure in knowing that she cannot see me. It gives me an unspoken advantage, one I can use whenever I please. _She_ haunts _me_. It only makes sense that I haunt her _back_.

"The Angel of Music," says Christine.

Perfect. I graze the stubble along my jaw as I lean forward, and hear a sadness-tinged laugh in Madame's otherwise strict voice. "The Angel of Music in your father's song?"

"Yes," says Christine. "Father knows him, and he made a deal with God, and told me he would send him to me from Heaven."

I savour her words carefully, suppressing a smile. As I listened from my hiding place in Gustave's chamber, my thought was this exactly: _It can't really be that easy_. I know now that it is, though I still do not know why. God isn't on my side—or is He? _You have no reason to be_, I silently direct heavenward.

"Christine, you know your Father was having trouble controlling his thoughts." A moment of silence. "He'd told so many wonderful storeys, he became confused as to which ones were real and which were not."

"Oh, no," she returns. "He was always sure of the Angel."

"Well," says Madame Giry after a time, and they continue to walk. "Perhaps this Angel will come straight from Heaven into your dreams, child. And in your dreams, he can sing to you all you'd like."

Does she truly think I cannot hear the caution in her voice? This both amuses and alarms me. She cannot possibly know what thoughts circulate in my twisted mind.

"_I_ want to see the Angel of Music," says Meg.

But the Angel of Music will not visit his lover's illegitimate child, she who was borne from a proper husband. _Madeleine, you know I have no want of your daughter_. But _Christine!_ Christine's need for music is my licence to give it to her. Erik is restless, and his irritating protests make me weary. My fingers tingle as I make my way into the depths of the opera house, and I let the grin surface in anticipation at my purpose. I have much planning to do.

…

**Madame Giry**

"You are willing to do this, then?"

I nodded solemnly. "Yes."

"Out of your own pocket?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

Lefevre eyed me, sucking at the insides of his lips thoughtfully. "You are an enigma. Truly an enigma."

I said nothing. He hadn't any idea.

The manager sighed. "Well then. If you have that much faith in the little girl, I suppose your call is a good one. You really can afford this?"

"What would you have me do, Monsieur?" I asked him pointedly.

He shook his head. "You are a better man than I, Madame Giry. I suppose a raise is in order for you. Was that your plan from the beginning?"

I glared at him. "Gustave Daae passed away not two days ago. I did only what I could as the circumstances allowed; I have no other intentions than to bring his child up in a home, with a family."

He chuckled mirthlessly. "It is a paradox, really, that you think she would lead a safer life here, in a haunted Opera, than in a supernaturally-untouched orphanage. Your trust in this Ghost is beyond me."

I let my eyes roll. "The Opera Ghost has no interest in little girls. I do not fear for her safety."

The manager dismissed me, and I left his office pleased that I could at least convince _him_ of such a thing. He was easily manipulated, I supposed. The Phantom's salary was proof of that, at least.

_The Opera Ghost has no interest in little girls._

It was true. It was always true. I was the only human he cared for. Besides me, he hated every last one of them…innocent little girls as well. With that, I only told the manager what was so.

_I do not fear for her safety_.

But that, perhaps, was a lie.


	10. Foolhardy

**Madame Giry**

I was young. And naïve, as young girls are. That said, my maturity had always surpassed others of my age, due to my circumstances, my father's switch and my mother's no-nonsense eyes, the death of my parents and the care of my brother and what have you, but I was still only a girl. Compassion was all I needed for courage and it blinded me, if one can be blinded by such a holy notion. I thought I knew what to do. I had no idea it would come to this.

_I watched the boy._

_I had done the only thing I could think of. I didn't know what it was I'd done, only that I had to do it. Perhaps I had seen such terror in his eyes…or perhaps it was just the mere thought of such an evil against a child so small. Henri's death was still fresh in my mind. Perhaps I had seen this boy's humiliation and fear and the face I had imagined beneath the sack was Henri's._

_Then I saw his deformity, and I understood…something. Something registered in my heart, and connected with my mind. Whatever it was had held me to my spot as the others left the tent._

"_What is your name?"_

_His profile was to me, the untainted profile, and though his visible eye was not on me, I could see that it was green. "I don't have one." I listened to the sound of his voice, those being the first words he had spoken. I had left him in the chapel, and upon finding him again, he had done nothing but grasp my hand, as if he were afraid to let it go. I was not sure that he could even speak. After a great while, he did let go, and I thought I heard him cry beneath his sack._

_We were sitting in the orchestra pit beneath the stage, and I had taken two loaves of bread and a block of cheese and three sticks of celery from the kitchens. He consumed them ravenously, not looking at me even once. Perhaps he was ashamed of his tears. More likely, he was ashamed of his face._

"_You have to have a name," I assured. "Everyone has a name."_

_The boy's eye met mine. "Why do you suppose that is true?"_

"_Well," I reasoned, "there must be something that your mother can call you." Then I bit down on my tongue; his mother must have been dead._

_He looked down. "She called me many things." His voice was broken, and so, so young. How was a child even capable of…_

_I fiddled with a music stand nervously. _You are responsible for him, Madeleine. Talk to him_. "Surely she gave you a name."_

_He shook his head. "She did not," he insisted._

_Another awkward silence followed. My heart was heavy as I stared at him, willing my mind to grasp such a concept. What kind of life was given him? How could anyone be so cruel?_

"_Did you see it?"_

_I blinked. "Did I see what?"_

_He pointed to his face. "When he took it off. Did you see it?"_

_I nodded slowly. "Yes."_

_He set down his bread and fixed his visible eye upon me, and a look of utter loss. "Why did you help me then?"_

_If I thought my heart was heavy before, I was wrong. Now it sank to my stomach, and I thought perhaps I should move toward him to comfort him…but I couldn't. Not after what I had seen. It was not his _face_ that scared me. "Because they would have lynched you," I whispered. "You could die for it."_

_His muscles hardened beneath his dirty skin, and a forgotten trombone gleamed beside his knees. "Then why would you bring me here?"_

_I twisted my face in a confused scowl. What did that mean? "How old are you?" I asked him._

_He shrugged lifelessly. "Ten, perhaps."_

_My brother lived to see ten. "I am eighteen."_

_He looked as if he didn't care, but something told me that he was hanging tightly to every word I said._

_The last of the bread was finished. Slowly, he slipped the bag over his head once more, and turned to me—his cloth monkey in his hand. "Do you want me to leave now?" The child's voice shattered over every word._

"_No!" I lowered my tone. I never did know how to handle the emotions of others. "They are still looking for you. You will stay here until the Gypsy camp leaves."_

_If I could have seen his face, I would have been sure his lips trembled. "But now I have become a murderer." He sniffed. "Mother always said I would."_

_I felt my face would forever wrench itself into that horrible position. "I can help you, though, I promise I can."_

_The look in his eye, as they seemed to fill with tears again, made me want to cry. He stood as well, without complaint, and followed me out of the orchestra pit. The theatre was dark, abandoned. I wasn't sure where he could hide. Certainly not in the dormitories. His face allowed him no discretion. As far as I knew, he could never be seen in Paris again. But I couldn't think about that now._

_Right now, I had to hide him, until it was safe to think._

"_I hate him."_

_I turned, his voice sending chills up my spine. His green eyes met mine through the burlap sack._

"_I still hate him, even though he is dead."_

_My stomach twisted in knots. I would not let myself blame him—perhaps I would have done the same thing, had I lived his life. But once was enough. He could never do it again. "It did not solve your problems the way you thought it would."_

_The boy said nothing, and I led him through the dimly lit corridors. The cellars were old and smelt of rot. But he had lived in a circus, which smelt even worse...and I was suddenly aiding a murderer, regardless that he was a little boy as well. We could not be picky._

_I pulled at the dusty handles of the root cellar doors. They opened and released a cloud of dust into the glow of the moonlight. "In here," I said, motioning him to the steps. He eyed them cautiously for a moment, and then entered before me. "Stay down here…I will come back with blankets and candles, and more food."_

_I turned to leave, but he caught my hand. "You are leaving me?"_

_It couldn't have been his own fear that frightened me. Why, then, did I tremble? "Only for a moment, little boy."_

_His grip tightened abruptly. "Please don't leave. If you really want to help me, don't ever leave me."_

_What was I supposed to do? I was silent for a few seconds, and then I said, "I only wish to make you more comfortable."_

"_But you will come back?"_

_I nodded._

_He paused. "If you don't come back, then I don't want you to ever have to think about me again. But if you do come back…" he stopped for a moment. "If you do come back, you must promise to never leave me." Again, his voice broke, and I knew by the sound of it I must do everything I could to help him._

"_I will come back. And I promise you."_

_The boy stood there, completely inanimate but for his eyes, which swam with new tears. "It did solve my problems, while he was dying." Our gaze was tense. "I could do anything while he was dying." My bones shook as I stared at his hand—the hand of a killer, the hand that had only a half an hour before taken a man's life, the fingers which had clenched beyond clenching at each blow of a baton, the fist he perhaps sucked as he tried to sleep at night. "My mother never gave me a name," he repeated, drawing my eyes from his grip and into his gaze. Except for the remarkable strength that powered his young hand, all of the energy, the mindless adrenaline he'd been bursting with as we ran from the circus was gone, and in its place was a sombre, confused resignation. "But you can if you want to."_

_I drew in a deep breath, and stepped away from him. Still, he clung to my hand. "Please let me go," I whispered. For an instant, he closed his eyes. The painful pressure on my hand released, and I felt blood rush through my fingers. I hadn't any idea he'd gripped me so firmly. I exhaled lowly, and reassured, "I will be back in a moment."_

_I ran alone through the corridors, finding my way in the dark to the dormitories. Would he even be there when I returned? I prayed that he would. Amidst my sorrow and the fear that still gripped my heart, I was thrilled that he had been saved, and that I had been the one to save him. And I found myself in a rather dark euphoria that there were Gendarmes out looking for both of us._

"_Madeleine!"_

_I heard the voice before I saw its source, and plowed straight into Madame Yvette. She grasped my shoulders tight, and then held me to herself firmly. "Madeleine, never scare me like that again! We could not find you anywhere after that beast murdered his handler!"_

_I felt myself stiffen in her grasp. _Beast?_ I wanted to defend him. More than anything, I wanted to defend him in her presence, but to do so would be to put both of us at risk—that alone I was sure of. "I am sorry, Madame. I was…frightened, and I ran back this way, where I knew it was safe." It was the truth. God could never hold it against me, not even on Judgement Day._

_I wasn't one to lie, after all._

_Madame Yvette once again transformed into the rigid, severe figure that harnessed discreetly the compassion I knew was there, and I hoped one day to be just like her. "You will learn to stay with the group next time during the whole visit."_

_I blinked, smoothing my dress, and shook my head. "There will not be a next time, Madame. I don't ever want to see another Gypsy again."_

_Madame cracked a smile. "Child, I don't blame you in the slightest. Now scurry off—you must get your rest. This has been a rather draining night. The other girls are already in the dorms."_

_I nodded fervently and curtsied a bit, and rushed away, proud of myself for swallowing the biggest secret I'd ever had to keep._

Little did I know that I would have to swallow that secret until my mouth was dry with deceit, even to today. Before that night, I had always prided myself concerning my honesty. A virtue that I had made ridiculous and impossible, as I soon discovered, with the charge I had adopted. And even with what I knew today, I still had no hint as to what I should do differently, if I were given a second chance.

Seconds chances, as much as they were overrated, were hopeless, anyway.

…

**Erik**

It is merciful that I have something resembling humanity sharing my soul with the reckless Phantom. It was an idea upon impulse to take Christine as my child and create her into something Madame would recognise as my brilliance. And it is fortunate for them both that I allowed myself time to think through such a spontaneous plan before carrying it to execution.

I can now see just how foolhardy such a thing would be.

As a rule, I hate human beings. I owe them nothing, and I care nothing for their petty lives. It is a dangerous thought that I should connect myself in such a way with a child, of _all_ people, and unleash my influence into her life. I am a ghost, and I haunt. Madame is my sole anchor in this human life, and she is just enough of a weight to keep me attached to my own humanity. I am comfortable with the balance between human and ghost, and I cannot burden myself with another responsibility, such as Christine Daae, that will remind me of my mortal existence.

It would surely destroy my essence. I do not want that to happen.

To appease myself, and to thoroughly purge myself of such careless fantasies, I stand before my mirror and tighten my cravat, reassessing my appearance. The image does not disappoint me. Years before, I learned that I needn't use my face to intimidate. Intimidation is a delicate marriage of frightening and awe-inspiring. I can intimidate those around me with a carefully constructed aura of lazy movements and infernal gazes and half-restrained smiles. I can be a very disconcerting image—nearly feline, in my predatorily imposing air. I was inspired by a rather fantastic actor who played charisma and menace rather well atop the stage, and I took his basic designs and polished them into the perfect bearing suited for a phantom.

It was years ago. I found that amongst my many other talents, my ability to slip into any character I choose is one of them. I do not classify myself as an actor at all; rather, I have many, many different personalities, some of them unplanned and others under my control, and I often hone them and use them to my advantage in whatever situation I find myself in.

Situations like the one I am about to orchestrate. I take childish pleasure in haunting the residents of the theatre. I once behaved in such a way toward Madame, when we were on much more personal (dare I say intimate?) terms. No, not intimate—I would only have liked to think so. I tried to both endear her and frighten her, until I learned that she did, truly, wholly _fear_ me. My intentions were only to intimidate her then, so that I could have power over her mind. I have it now, but it does not satisfy me. Now, I do not have many dealings with her. My days are fulfilled by haunting.

It is time that I introduce Christine to the Opera Ghost, and fully establish myself, in my mind as well, as the Phantom, and only that. _Forgive me, Gustave, for lying to you_. She will not be my child, my creation. She will be just like the rest of them.

…

**Christine**

I watched my fingers as they shook. "Angel of Music," I whispered, "guide and guardian…grant to me your glory." Smiling a little, and wondering why it hurt my temples to smile, I added, "Or I shall forget Father forever."


	11. The Angel is beckoned

A/N…Sarrin, the first three sentences in your review of chapter 9 made me shake my head and grin.

**Erik**

I lean forward, listening. There is so much to be told about a person by the way the mouth is formed over the words, the unique timbre of voice, the potency as opposed to the dynamics. This child is shy even in her own presence. It is clear—she tiptoes shamefully into the climax and approaches the C as if she wants to remain inconspicuous even to the music she is creating. My fingers tighten their grip on my knees as she stupidly pauses for a shallow breath before releasing the note. The result is an insult to the sweet and pretty sound that would have been had she let it come naturally. Her strain begins to falter, and she lets the note die with a wavering, ashamed whimper. I want right now to confront her and tell her exactly what to do differently, and instruct her to sing it again under the influence of my instruction.

_Idiot_, I mutter. _She's only a child—she's no older than seven_. Can I never appreciate the beauty without first criticising the flaws? _Idiot!_ I mutter again. _That is no fault of your own with which you degrade yourself_. My harsh critique of her is actually a flattery; I expect much more from her because she's given much more than I _know_ to be natural at her age.

My sudden predicament confuses me and the intentions that brought me here. Only a quarter hour before I followed Christine to the stage, with merely the purpose of frightening her and sending her running off to her little ballet friends. In turn, they were to faithfully give her a proper background and their own embellished tales of the Opera Ghost. My unwilling servants excel in their naïve obedience. But before I could accomplish anything to my liking, she started to sing, and even now I can only listen to her. Her father was a well-known musician and singer, and she accompanied him. None of the storeys that preceded her, though, could have prepared me for this remarkable untrained talent.

The floorboards creak, and I mentally curse the stingy contractors M Lefevre employed to save his precious money, after I specifically commanded only the best for the new addition to my house. I stiffen instantly and will the dissonant wooden groan to pass so Christine will not hear it and discontinue her song. Yes, she needs years of tutoring and a certain confidence that she might never gain; but she is, somehow, different. Her voice lacks passion but is dulled with sorrow, so pitiful that it reaches my soul on several different levels. She knows pain; the death of her father at such a delicate age will scar a part of her that should never have been exposed in the first place. And in a sinister way, that appeals to me.

I do not blame myself. M Daae's death was in painful proximity regardless of my actions, and would have been far worse for her had I allowed him to live the last days of his illness. He would have forgotten her, and his last look into her eyes would have been one of distance, and solitude, and unfamiliarity. It surely would have destroyed her. I should be commended for intercepting God's cruelty and ending Gustave's life before he hurt his daughter more.

I watch. Her round brown eyes begin to fill, and the candlelight reflects from them. She sits swiftly and wraps her little arms around her legs, and buries her face into her skirt. The fragile brown curls sweep around her young frame, and her shoulders begin to heave, in a manner that should be foreign to a child so young. My hands find their way to my own cloaked shoulders, and my mind is flooded with memories of when I looked just like that—when I allowed myself to cry. I know the way tears hurt at that age, and she is experiencing true pain for the first time in her life. Why is the compassion that spurred me to relieve her father coming back to me so strongly? I do not need it now. I do not want it at all. It is of no consequence to me anymore. My fists clench at my shoulders, and I stand; my eyes do not leave her.

"Why, God," I whisper. "Why is it always children? Why _me_, and why her now?" My heart begins to pound, as I think of what pain He caused by making her father so sick. Her sobs reach me; even her whimpers are beautiful in her soprano timbre. How can He not hear her? She is a cherub—surely He knows that. "I will never understand You, God." My whispers become husky as tears I long ago banished begin to surface. "I will _never_—"

"Father!"

I bite the inside of my cheek, as the little girl's face emerges from the mess of curls about her forme, which is awkwardly fit with a worn ballet suit for her first day of practise. Is she also crying out to God? I begged when I was young, too—but years of begging gave me nothing, and all I have left is anger. My blood boils now, with this thought alone. She will have years to slowly come to this understanding. _Will you never be satisfied, God?_

"I don't know what to do! You said that you and God made a deal!"

Then she is not talking to God. She said "Father." She is speaking to her deceased father, like a child enticed by the supernatural realm through a séance, or something like it.

"You promised me!" Her voice breaks at the mention of the promise. "You said I could have him! You said you would send him! Over and over, you said it! Where _is_ he, Father? Where is Lotte's Angel?"

My mind spins. The Angel of Music. But I can't. Christine speaks of him all the time, as a storeyteller, using lyrics but abandoning the melodies…what are the words? "_What I love most, Lotte said, is when I am asleep in my bed, and the Angel of Music sings songs in my head_." For two months, with growing conflict over my decision to discard the idea, I have listened to her speak with Madame, promising her that the Angel would come, regardless of what Madame thought; her father promised her, and her father would never lie.

"Is it because I left you, Papa? Are you breaking your promise because I broke mine? But I tried to stay! I did, but they took me from you!" She balls her fists, challenging the ceiling with a desperate and tormented face. "It is Madame's fault that I can't have the Angel, because she took me from you! And it is Raoul's fault that I can't have the Angel, because Raoul tried to make me stop believing in him!"

The illusions I had when she first arrived dare to encroach upon my thoughts, again, and again. I shake outwardly to rid myself of them inwardly, knowing that I am not in a state to make any rash decisions, as I so often do. My heart is in anguish—torn between anger and sorrow, and the compulsive Phantom will not listen to the very human and rational Erik that Madame once so wanted me to be. I try hard often…but I am not often so blasted emotional. _Shut up_, I command my thoughts. _Shut up!_

_You can be her salvation_, the Phantom tells me.

_No, I_ _can't_, I spit back. _There is no salvation for me to offer._

I haven't been this torn between myself for years—since Madame first left me.

I stare at Christine again, vaguely aware that the illusion of my hair is twisted between my fingers. She swipes frantically at her eyes, hiccupping in her sorrow, as she no doubt will for months or years until real life becomes evident and teaches her to hide. "No," I say aloud, and bite my tongue as I realise she may have heard me. But no. That cannot happen to her. Not like it has to me.

_Then do not let it happen. You know you can stop it._

I want to scream my rage at the voice, but I cannot give myself away and betray him, the Phantom, in me. I shake my head furiously, trying to rid myself of the lightness. Curse the Angel of Music. I am no Angel and I will surely be damned to a hell worse than this life if I masquerade as one. It is ludicrous, besides. Ludicrous, twisted, and evil. I will not claim those titles for myself; the goodness and compassion that Madame once saw in me, that I am sure I still retain, balances out the evil of the mask. I am yet convinced that I couldn't succeed even if I wanted to. Who has ever even heard of, and who will ever even believe in…

_A phantom?_

I pull my mask from my face and squeeze the leather within the deadly grasp I introduced to my hands years before. I can't kill it, though, as I can so easily kill everything else. It is the mask's fault, all of it—the thing will not leave me even if I am not wearing it. The mask is the true Phantom, I have told myself over and over again. It isn't my face—my face is not the sin, according to Madame Giry. _Blast, I can't stop thinking of her!_ It is the mask I wear to hide it. I have to believe her, but still I cannot accept myself without it. I am two separate people, but that is all I know, and only in times like these do I ever question the wisdom of it. The mask has always taunted me; its new game, now, is unacceptable as it tries to deceive and entice, telling me that pretending to be an Angel is no different than masquerading as a phantom.

Of course it is, though. Ghosts, Demons reveal themselves to mortals all the time. Angels do not, and if so, only briefly. Angels do not haunt, and do not linger, the way a phantom does. Angels do not sing audibly to the ear, but to the heart; something I am not capable of doing, unless figuratively. It is stupid, I tell myself, stupid. I lift the half-mask again to my face and press the leather into my twisted flesh until I know it is secure. I will be the Phantom and I will be Erik, and nothing else.

I won't be her Angel of Music.

"Father, I forget the words…." Her plea drifts in my direction, and I dare not let my mind wander at the irony of it. I begin to move toward the hidden door, feigning confidence in my decision.

"_Angel of Music_…"

I pause, one foot out the door, as the shaking voice calls to me. Calls to me? No—she calls an imaginary Angel. _She didn't call to you, fool_, I think at myself. Regardless of how I want—

"_Lotte's Teacher_…"

It's stupid. It is a stupid idea.

"_Sing to me of glory_."

What glory does she want? Just what did her father promise her about this Angel? I can give her glory, yes—with the talent she might bring to me, the willingness she might lay at my feet, I can move mountains. _No_. Of course not.

"_Angel of Music, come from Heaven_…"

My hands go to my ears, but neither will the mask's taunting nor the child's voice be shut away, as she hesitantly recalls the words to her father's song.

"_Give me your song, Angel_."

The tune is familiar to me—Gustave attempted it, and she has hummed it often without words, so often that even little Meg gallops through the halls with the song on her lips, granting it nonsensical lyrics that don't do the beautiful melody any justice. But Christine has never sung until this day.

After a moment of the empty silence of remembrance, the words her father taught her find their way back into the music from which they came.

"_Heaven sent Lotte her Angel_

"_Lotte was granted her wings_

"_Heaven itself kneels to listen_

"_To the words she sings_."

The bits and pieces I've learnt of Little Lotte and Gustave Daae over the past two months begin to weave themselves into the fabric that quilts my outrageous and brilliant imagination. I can do so much for this child, and her song is _offering_ me a _way_ to do it. I can save her—it's true. I can do whatever it will take to save her. I can give her back her father! And I will.

"_Angel of Music, guide and guardian_

"_Grant to me your glory_

"_Angel of Music, hide no longer_

"_Secret and strange Angel_."

Music. Christine wants music. Music is, in no plainer terms, my life. As simple and unadulterated as that. From my birth, when my mother forced a mask upon the mockery that is my face, and then my childhood, when all I owned was a burlap sack and a cloth monkey with a pair of chimes. It sustained me until Lombardi died, and it brought me salvation the moment I stepped foot in the opera house. If it is music she needs, too, for salvation, I am already her saviour.

Slowly my mind begins to grasp the idea, and though all the reason Erik invoked still fights violently against my impulsive designs, Christine's voice begins to beckon me. How she finishes her song, I don't know, not when she is hurting to such an extent. Unless she believes—if she truly believes in this Angel, I can save her. If I can take the superstitions of the ballet rats and stagehands and embody them in the forme of a ghost, I can easily influence a desperate child's belief in the impossible. All I need to do is show her that the impossible is _easily_ achieved.

I will be her Angel of Music, and she will never fall into the blackness I so tragically call my home. I will be her Angel of Music, whether she knows it or not. She will not mourn her father, ever again. And Madeleine will be blind not to see that it is because of me.


	12. Violins and a Ghost's demands

**Erik**

I drag a finger over the strong, red wood, and follow its curve until my nails slide against the strings. They are taut and submissive, just waiting to be drawn of their music. It is a thing of beauty. The bow feels light in my hand as I pull it across the strings. A strain of the most sorrowful kind follows the motion and I feel a chill run through my body. "I will woo you," I whisper to it as a melody emerges from the violin's mourning. "You were Gustave's once—and just as he loved you, I will love you even more."

The music bleeds into my soul as I close my eyes, picturing little Christine, and her angelic smile. "_I will love you even more_." Her round chocolate eyes, in my vision, adore me, as the violin adores my touch, my coaxing. Christine will be my violin—she will be my music, and I her master. I own Gustave's instrument; now I will own his daughter, and in doing so, I will give her back her father. She will never be alone again. As long as I continue to live, she will never shed a tear of loneliness, ever, again.

My breath catches as the stem of my thoughts sheds light on my understanding. I am doing this for myself as much as for Christine. Regardless of my designs to seduce Madame Giry with evidence of my power, Christine has given me a reason to live. She is giving me a new purpose—she _is_ my new purpose, and she will be my breath and life-giving elixir for the rest of my existence. In this moment, with the intoxicating influence of the violin's refrain and the pounding of my heart at my new discovery, I almost thank God. Almost. I catch myself, and swear that I will not thank Him until I know that I cannot fail.

_Creeeaaaaakkkk_.

I bolt upright and pull the bow from the instrument with a protesting shriek from the strings, my heart racing, a misplaced grin fighting for dominance at my lips. The floorboards outside of the flat continue to creak as I cradle the violin, pulling myself upright and slipping through the trapdoor, thankful that Madame Giry has yet to discover it. I listen intently and watch her through the inconspicuous hole as she enters the room.

The grave streaks between her brows and the suspicious glint in her eyes complement the tight, thin lines that are her lips. She knows I have been in here; undoubtedly she heard my playing. Madeleine lets the door fall into place behind her without moving. Her eyes are raised to the ceiling; I suppress a laugh. She has no idea that I am below her.

"I know you are watching me," she accuses, forcing propriety into her voice to mask the bite. "And I know that you have the violin."

I stroke the instrument possessively, smirking.

"Come to your senses, child!" she scolds, and I grit my teeth. It is ridiculous to call a man a child, and she knows it—but she also, effectively, knows how to grate at my nerves. "You know it belonged to Gustave, and I trust you also know that his dying request to me was that it would pass on to her."

I know that; Madeleine knows that. Christine does not know that, and she won't have to, if Madame Giry has any wisdom at all.

"At least let me know that you are still in here, and that I am not truly speaking to a ghost," she spits ironically.

For my own amusement, I throw my voice to the rafters with the intention of confusing her. "But you are, Madame."

"You are positively intolerable." She sighs. I savour her sigh. "Undoubtedly, you handle the thing as well as or better than M Daae himself, God rest his soul, and could make much better use of it than Christine. But if truly you are as selfish as that, then I never knew you at all."

I draw the bow across the strings of the violin in a mocking fashion.

Madame Giry's face contorts with disbelief. "I will never forgive you for this, _Erik_," she hisses, not bothering to hide her anger any longer. "Unless you have a reason beyond my understanding for this repulsive theft, I pray I will never have anything to do with you again."

It is funny, our relationship: it is cemented in affection, and upheld through obligation, but more than either of those it thrives on manipulation. The woman lied, generously, when she said she didn't know me at all. She knows me nearly as well as I know myself, and knows that with such an ominous blackmail she can hurt me and perhaps stun me into obedience. But I do have a reason beyond her understanding. I will let her know this soon enough, after I am sure that my plan is infallible, and after I have successfully courted Christine into believing me to be her Angel of Music. I smirk, my revelation, my newly discovered purpose, forgotten to think on later.

Madeleine will forgive me then. And then she will be mine.

…

**Lefevre**

"_My Respected Manager_," I began, my eyes surveying the graceful scratchings made by the red ink. "_It has been two weeks since I last demanded anything of you. The chorus boys have never sounded less like girls in their young careers, and little Eva breaking her toe has spared the ballet many probable blunders. As of late you have been cooperatively following my instructions without need for reminder. Though I mean not to push your generosity and its limits, I will insist on yet another matter_."

The ballet mistress did not meet my eyes, only sat quietly with her shoulders back, lips pursed, and hands folded in her lap.

"_With the recent and most unfortunate exit of the exalted Willem di Renaldi, the Opera's finest dressing room lies vacant. It is to be given to the newest addition to Madame Giry's ballet persuasion, one Christine Daae, for her use and purposes alone, until a new luminary of Renaldi's competence can be appointed. Do not make the mistake of denying Miss Daae this luxury; worse things than a broken toe can befall a more worthy performer. I remain, my good manager_, blah, blah and humility and flattery and you know the rest!"

Madame Giry still remained unmoving, but I had noticed a slight furrow of her brow at the mention of the Daae orphan—whom _she_ had brought to us in the first place. "You know something of this," I accused.

"I must admit I suspected the talents of the Opera Ghost had been employed when the bumbling Eva received her injury," Giry said after a second's hesitation, "but until now I had dismissed the thought as mere superstition."

"That's not what I mean and you know it!" I fumed, my fist slamming into the table, and crumpling the note as it went. "Don't toy with me, Madame, and don't insult my intelligence."

She looked at me then, coolly. "I might have, M Lefevre, given there was intelligence present to insult."

"Blast, woman, this is all your fault somehow," I raged at her, and plopped back, resigned, into the seat behind my desk. My temples fell forward onto my fingers, and I groaned. "I would have fired you long ago if my _most respectful and compliant servant_ hadn't _instructed_ otherwise."

"I believe it is _humble and obedient_, and I believe he'd threatened," she offered, ever the proper and undaunted and I dare say _maternal_ mistress.

"Only half the time is it _humble and obedient_," I said. "Occasionally he ventures from the habit and finds new self-promoting terms for his signature." My hand dropped lazily from my head to the note on the desk, and I spun it with my fingers. "Obviously, you have an inkling of what is behind his new dealings," I sighed. "Then tell me—what is his purpose for favouring the little girl _you_ brought _with_ you…and how am I supposed to deal with the complaints that will surely arise when it appears his favour for her is actually my own?"

Her brow creased again, and she cleared her throat, undoubtedly troubled. "I do not know, and I swear that to be true. I don't know why he's chosen—why he demands the dressing room be given to her, over the others. All I am certain of is that it would be unwise to not comply with such a demand, and if the rest of your performers do not understand, you can be honest and blame it on the Ghost."

My palm pressed against my lips, which pressed against my teeth, and my moustache tickled the skin there. I closed my eyes and stood, and Madame Giry stood in accordance. "Very well," I said, smoothing out the note and scanning it one last time. His cynical wit was threaded throughout, and his trademark irony was not missing. Yes, he called himself obedient, but it was I who would again be the one to obey. "You may move little Daae's things into Renaldi's dressing room—_just_ _until_ he comes back, which is unlikely, or until, like our _Phantom_ said, we find another star."

Giry nodded brusquely and left my office. I stared after her. Her claim had enough conviction that I believed she didn't know the purpose of his plans; however, her concern had me worried. There was something she wasn't telling me, and if I weren't manager of this opera house, I wouldn't even care to know.

I glanced at my calendar and cursed. It was two days until the end of the month. His salary was almost due.


	13. The love of a child

**Erik**

Just a few moments.

My feet take me down the dank, unlit passage with resonating footfalls. I scarcely hear them. In the possessive clutch of my gloved hand is the violin. Its strain is different than that of any other violin I've ever played, or even heard. No doubt Daae was a master, and his talent for personalising his own instrument is something I grudgingly accept that I can never replicate. Needless to say, Christine will recognise its unique and familiar sound, and that will play into my charade perfectly.

Just a few moments before my soul will diverge once again, and manifest itself in yet another unlikely supernatural identity.

"Damn you, Erik," I intone gutturally, forcing any rebellious thoughts that are about to happen into silent submission. I want to be entirely at ease with myself over what I am about to do, if I want to do it correctly. Naturally, I am not. The Fates never make anything easy for me; they leave me only to decide which disposition of my essence to trust, and to put my trust in said disposition entirely.

Just a few moments and I will embody not only a man and a phantom, a mortal and a ghost, but an Angel.

A smirk comes across my lips. I wear black. A _dark_ Angel.

"That is who you are," I whisper. "A fallen Angel…a celestial governor foisted into an earthly semblance doomed to Hell." That will do. That will have to do; I don't know who, or what, I am, and my newest façade suddenly fits, making more sense than anything I've ever thought to be before. Devil's Child is at once more acceptable, if I am also an Angel to compensate.

A sudden image of Madeleine tears through my thoughts, how beautiful she looked in her anger and incredulity, and an all-too-familiar sensation stirs within me, pulling me back into reality. _Merde_; I am still a man after all.

A few more steps, and the deep pinks and golds of the dressing room come into visibility by the light of my torch. I do not need it to light my way, of course, but flame has a nymph-like peculiarity of ushering me into the perfect ambience while I play. The thought of the golden firelight dancing off of the red wood of the violin, as it weeps tears of incomparable music, nearly steals my breath.

My footfalls become lighter and less swift as I draw closer to the mirror. Stopping just inches from it, I lower the torch into an empty sconce in the stone wall and cradle the violin into my cloak. It is just past seven-thirty; Christine will be present any moment, trusting that M Lefevre received my note well.

I wonder, at times, how long the man will last. The two dual managers before him put up with me for only six months; the manager before _them_ I could only tolerate for two before disposing of his career. Before that, there was LaBrant, that agreeable and bloody wealthy old gentleman who enjoyed the intrigue and infamy I brought to his beloved Opera Populaire and gladly paid me for my services. I'd let him entertain the thought that he shared custody of the Opera—he amused me. He'd been the manager when I first came, and I was grateful to have him until his curiosity consumed him and he met an unfortunate end with one of my trapdoors.

_Lefevre_, however, is clearly not a reasonable man. The fool complains in the quiet of my salary. He is not taking into account that without my help, this opera house would have failed to survive years before he ever entered into its management. For a year he has whined enough to make me tighten a hand around my lasso more than once, but for the most part he follows my instructions, unmistakably due to his natural and proper fear of me, and therefore we settle with each other…despite my distaste for his terribly discoloured moustache.

My thoughts are interrupted by the graceful footsteps that can be made only by a ballerina, and I know my time has come, and my purpose is about to establish itself and seal my fate. I remind myself not to let this moment be lost on me. The dressing room's doors swing open, and through them enters my Madeleine, and behind her, clinging to her hand, my Christine.

Madame Giry does not know of my mirror tricks. I suspect she doesn't know a transparent side of a mirror is even possible. That works to my advantage; though I will not ever spy on her while she dresses, I can watch as she pretties her hair before her reflection, or dances when she thinks she cannot be seen, and imagine that it is my eyes she is looking into and not her own.

"Ahhh," comes a sigh from Christine's young throat, as she spins slowly to absorb her surroundings.

"Do you like it, Christine?" enquires Madeleine, and she too lets her gaze wander about the room—though she isn't taking in its magnificence as the child is, she _is_ looking for _me_.

"Father said that I would have a dressing room like this," she breathes, "when I became a great and famous singer."

My eyes break away from Madeleine so I can grin at Christine.

"Well, child, it is not fame that gives you this dressing room," Madame murmurs, and I notice her searching the closet as she hangs Christine's three dresses and ballet uniform. The _closet?_ Does she _really_ deem me that unoriginal?

"Oh no," the little girl replies. "It is a gift from my Angel of Music."

I am startled, and Madeleine spins. "What was that?"

Christine bounces into the sofa, her wild curls flipping into the air. "Father said the Angel always gave Little Lotte the right gifts that would make her into a star. Of course this good luck is because of Father's Angel!"

Madame Giry's eyes remain fixed on Christine, and my heart is leaping with something akin to _giddiness_, which I have never felt even once! …but I know enough about human beings to match a word with the sensation. Then, the Angel of Music is to bestow upon his pupil gifts of such material nature? With the dressing room, therefore, I have moved strategically without any conscious effort. Gustave Daae was a very intuitive man; either that, or God truly did mean for me to be an Angel before He banished me to this disfigured visage. Erik's protests die completely at Christine's words, and for the first time since my plan began to unfold from the depths of my mind, I feel that I am, indeed, _finally_, doing something right.

And finally—for the first time in years—the Phantom and Erik are _one_ again, united! I am whole, and it is not lost on my heart, and I want to sigh, but I don't; Madame may hear me. Someday, she will.

I am ready to be the Angel of Music, and nothing else. I cannot keep the smile from my face.

…

**Madame Giry**

My search proved fruitless, as it always did. It was entirely against my nature to simply give up, though common sense mocked me. I wanted to sigh in resignation, but I knew he would hear it and it would only feed is arrogant satisfaction. My gaze returned to Christine, and before I knew it, I was crouching before her, my arms around her. "Miss Daae," I spoke into her hair, and she embraced me as well. "I am so glad you came to us."

She kissed my head, and for whatever strange reason that such things happened, I wanted to cry. I did not want to let her go. Letting her go meant leaving the room, and leaving the room meant leaving her by herself. Something was wrong, and I could not place it…and uncertainty I hated more than most.

Whatever it was, though, I was sure it had to do with me.

I released her, and instructed her to be ready by eight o'clock for ballet lessons. She set her little bag down and began to explore the fine room, wording her compliance, and I let my eyes survey the architecture once more before making my way out to the great doors.

"What are you doing, Erik," I murmured as they shut behind me. I listened at the door for a few moments but heard nothing unusual, and found myself wondering if he was yet in there at all.

…

**Erik**

The foolish woman! She thinks I don't know she is listening behind the door.

She is protective of Christine, the way she was protective of me when I was a child. Before his death, she had raised her brother Henri after the demise of their parents when he was hardly walking. The maternal nature imbedded in Madame at such a young age has never left her. Even when she casts her gaze about the Opera looking for me. I can detect her sense of parental authority even when dealing with O.G.

After all these years, she still mourns her brother. She still wants _him_ when she sees _me_, after all we've been through!

I wait rather impatiently for her to leave, and it strikes me suddenly: this is the first time I can remember that I do not want her near me. My eyes wander to Christine. She has no grasp of just how important she is, and just how much she is influencing my life, and dominating my thoughts.

Finally, I hear Madame Giry walk away.

The little girl runs her hands along the walls, and she throws her gaze to the ceiling, but the carefree smile that brightened her features moments ago is absent. Instead, her lip is trembling and her brow is knitted across her forehead. I think on this for a moment—she has learnt her own façade, as she clearly only feigned her happiness for Madame's sake. "Father," she whispers, and I lean in to hear her. "I almost don't believe in the Angel at all."

For a moment I panic, and nearly lose my grip on the wrapped instrument. _Almost_. _She said almost_, I reassure myself, and my confidence begins to build. When better to reinstate her belief than when it is almost lost? At her lowest, she will be most vulnerable. There is a verse in the Bible that I have always found fascinating, and it reads something like this: "My grace is sufficient for thee: for _My strength is made perfect in weakness_." If such a claim does well for God and His manipulative intents, it will work for a well-meaning Angel the same.

Christine sits on the floor in front of the elegant sofa and closes her eyes.

Carefully, soundlessly, I unwrap the violin from my cloak.

A moment later, tears stream down her cheeks.

It is here, the moment. I do not move, I do not breathe—I only think. _Is this what you want to do? Are you willing to disrupt your anonymous existence for the sake of this child?_ I stare at her, wondering if my heart still beats. I watch her thin white arms as they hug her knees, as if she wishes only to protect herself from the broken promises of the world she knew, and the loneliness she doesn't want to believe in. If I do this, I will be her path to her father—and she will be my path to my Madeleine.

_Yes_, I answer. _This is what I want to do_.

I rest the instrument against my shoulder and savour the cool, glossy surface against my warm jaw. Laying delicately the bow atop the strings, I take my final breath as a mortal and a ghost, and sing without accompaniment: "_Christine_…. _Christine_…."

Christine's eyes flutter open.

I pull the bow gently. The smoothness of the sound rounds each tone with trembling vibrato…a half note, two quarter notes, and a half note again…a B, an A and a G, an A again…and for the bewildered Christine, I play the melody to her father's _Lotte's Lullaby_.

My hand drags backward, and I repeat the melody, this time adding my voice, with my own lyrics.

"_Wandering child_

"_So lost, so helpless_

"_Yearning for my guidance_."

I pause, my soothing baritone echoing slightly from the walls of the passage, the sound filtering into the dressing room. She does not respond, though the violin music continues. Her large brown eyes shoot again to the ceiling, and her hands drop from her knees. I will have to teach her, I decide then, to respond to me when I sing to her, and to respond to me in song. But for now, her silence is acceptable.

"Christine, do you know who I am?" I enquire softly, mustering every bit of compassion I've ever felt and coating my words with it. It is almost easy to muster compassion if I centre my thoughts on my Madeleine. Christine's expression remains wide-eyed and panicked, but she does not move, or speak. She is terrified. I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to think of what to do—what this Angel would do. "Do you know who I am, Christine?" I repeat.

Her mouth slightly moves. "No," comes the small sound from her lips.

I let the melody fill up the silence, drawing the music out of the violin in a lesser volume. "Do you recognise this violin?"

She moves her head then, as if looking around her, trying to locate the origination of the sound. "It's my father's violin!" she exclaims suddenly, and she moves to her knees. "Where is it?"

"I have it, Christine," I say gently, matching the quality of my voice to the strains of the instrument. "It was your father's gift to me when he joined us."

"My father gave you his violin?" Her expression lights up, and she inhales eagerly. "I know who you are!"

"Your father told you he would send me," I add through a smile.

"He did, I knew he would," she sputters happily, and I see something new in her eyes for the first time. Joy. She is _remarkably_ beautiful when her eyes are coloured with joy! "He promised, and you came, just like he said you would." She stands and stretches her arms, and falters thereafter. "I'm ever so sorry, you must have heard me, I'm so sorry I almost stopped believing in you."

"You needn't be sorry, child," I assure, administering my soulful strokes to the strings and to my voice. "Your faith has been strong."

She smiles again, and the tears that fell before glisten atop her dimples. My heart fills with pride—selfless pride, and I marvel at the strange satisfaction of selflessness. "How is he, then?" she asks breathlessly.

I thought this through, of course, before coming. "He watches you, and speaks of nothing else to the other Angels."

"Does he miss me? Because _I_ miss him."

"Christine, I am here so you don't have to miss him," I say carefully. This is the moment when I become her salvation, and I am determined not to destroy my one chance. "When you think of him, think of _me_, and do not cry—for I will be with you always." It is in this instant that I realise I cannot allow myself to die, or everything will be ruined.

Christine nods, and she puts her hands on her cheeks, unable to contain her grin. "Wait 'til Madame and Meg find out," she croons. "They'll never—"

"Christine," I interject, and she is silenced. "Do not speak to them of me. They will come to understand in time, and in _my_ timing. Not yet."

She nods furiously. "Not yet. I won't tell them anything. You can be my secret Angel."

I continue to play, my head dipping, not daring to take for granted just how _perfectly_ implemented this plan has become. "Christine, do you know why I am here?" I realise that I have been using her name over and over again, but I love the way it rolls off of my tongue, and apparently, so does she.

"So I don't miss my father," she says instantly, and giggles a bit.

"Why else?"

Her eyes sparkle, and she opens her mouth, but just as quickly shuts it.

I wait.

"Well," she begins. "Little Lotte, of course."

The corner of my smile disappears underneath my mask. If she saw it, she would surely shrink back in terror. "Little Lotte."

"Yes." She smiles sheepishly.

The music rounds into the bridge perfectly in time. I sing:

"_Heaven sent Lotte her Angel_

"_Lotte was granted her wings_

"_Heaven itself kneels to listen_

"_To the words she sings!_"

Christine brightens visibly at the words, and at the clear beauty of my voice—my only beauty. She opens her mouth then, but no sound comes out. "Go on," I urge, and suddenly, without reservation, she finishes the song:

"_Angel of Music, guide and guardian_

"_Grant to me your glory!_

"_Angel of Music, hide no longer_

"_Secret and strange Angel!_"

Purity, in that sound. And passion—the passion I so immediately noticed lacking when I first heard her sing, that passion now enriches her song, and I am overcome with it's loveliness. My hand stays the note on the violin as long as she spends her breath on it, and I end it as she does.

She stands there, in the middle of the floor, breathless, like me.

My heart pounds.

She whirls in a circle, looking for the Angel, her hands trembling with delight.

"Christine," I whisper, and she again glances at the ceiling. "I will have no trouble teaching you at all."

And we both stand in silence, for a full moment, before she whispers back, in tones as soft as a mourning dove: "I love you."

My head snaps back, and I tighten my grip on the violin. I blink several times and swallow, and behind a stark wall of blankness my mind spins. Her face is serene and slightly shy, ignorant of the power she is capable of. Her claim stains my soul with its suddenness and gentle conviction, and my heart rises to my throat.

Before this day, I have never heard those words.

"I love you too, Christine," I breathe. "More than you could ever imagine."

The door rattles in its frame, and I jerk, but Christine doesn't even flinch. Her eyes remain on the ceiling. I love her, and I told her, believing it in that moment as I've never believed in anything, regardless of how I may regret it later.

"Christine!" cries little Meg, and she bursts into the room locking her arm with her friend, her eyes taking in every little detail. "I know, isn't it beautiful?" she chirps, noting Christine's expression of wonder. "Maman never let me in here before, but now that it belongs to you, she won't mind, really!"

Christine's eyes leave the ceiling, and she smiles at her friend. Her voice is silk-like and faraway, so unlike the high-pitch and timbre of Madame's daughter. "Yes, Meg." That is all she says before walking to the closet and running her fingers over her ballet uniform.

"Hurry now, Christine," sings Meg as she leaves the room. "Lessons begin in only ten minutes."

The door shuts.

Christine remains still by the closet.

"Lessons begin tonight," I call softly, and she smiles into her dresses. "When you are ready, I will be in here waiting for you."

Casting one last look at my child, I withdraw into the shadows of the passage, my heart racing, my eyes burning, and my head light with the sweet stupour of triumph. The trial has ended; the moment has passed. There is nothing that can possibly go wrong now, and I know this to be true. I love, and am loved in return—and that is all I have ever asked of God, and the world.

How unexpected, that it should come in the forme of a child.

**A/N…Sorry for the rip-off of Wandering Child…under most circumstances, I would have created my own lyrics, but I thought WC lyrics fit nicely and added a bit of foreshadowing. And worry not—this is not the end of Dark Erik. Merely a bit of a diversion.**


	14. Reminiscing of Madame Giry

**Erik**

It is evening, and an hour before supper. I watch and listen as she dismisses herself from the small gathering of girls in the dorms.

"Where are you going, Christine?" calls Meg, standing as if to go with her.

Christine turns to face her, her loose curls falling over her shoulders. "I am going to…see the Maestro."

"Oh," says Meg, and she resumes her spot with the little ballet rats. "He's a persnickety old loon."

"Who, Monsieur Reyer?" enquires another little girl, and Meg nods furiously, drawing them in with one of her imaginative and tasteless rounds of gossip about his "false eye," which is utter nonsense. The man has false teeth, and a funny moustache, but his eyes are in remarkable shape for his age.

I know this, because he has often seen me and then pretended that he saw nothing. My dear conductor is a secretive man, who dislikes trouble and attention. It has spared his life countless times, I think.

Christine, in the meantime, slips unnoticed from the room, and it is clear to no one but myself that the Maestro she spoke of seeing is not M Reyer at all. She seems to have a misguided view of honesty—she did not speak a falsehood, but her intentions were to mislead nonetheless. The girl does not understand that honesty and deception are absolutes, and therefore it is frivolous to concern herself over such notions.

She will learn.

I swiftly move through the corridors, and I am already behind the mirror when she enters her dressing room. She closes the door behind her and steps into the middle of the floor, smoothes the faint wrinkles from her skirt, and then makes her way back to the door and locks it.

I draw the violin out of my cloak and stretch my fingers.

She turns slowly, and her eyes wander the room. "All right," she says softly to herself. "All right."

I wait.

"I'm here, Angel," she says quietly. She is afraid that I might not be real.

"I have been waiting," I reply.

Her face brightens at the sound of my voice, but just as quickly it falls. "Oh, I'm sorry…don't be angry, I came as soon as Meg got distracted!"

That, for a strange reason, fills me with laughter. How very reminiscent of my own dealings with Meg's mother! "I was waiting only for a moment," I return quickly. "You did not keep me long." No, that is still the wrong thing to say, as I have unintentionally admitted that she _did_ keep me waiting. To recover from my error and put her at ease, I quickly begin to sing:

"_Child of mine, I'm here to teach you_

"_Sing for me now, Christine_."

She pauses, unsure. "What would you like me to sing?"

This will be her first lesson. "Sing whatever you need to say," I direct her. "Whatever thoughts are in your mind, I want to hear them in song. Whatever you want to tell me—if I address you in song, you will reply in the same manner. You needn't try to rhyme it."

Understanding filling her gaze, Christine nods. She resumes her position in the middle of the floor, and takes a deep breath, her hands at her sides, her shoulders back. And then, without another word, she begins.

"_Angel of Music, here, I'm waiting_

"_I'll obey your commands_

"_Angel, I'll listen to your singing_

"_Help me sing like Lotte_."

My mouth widens in a grin. She _did_ try, at least. I realise I will be training both her voice and her ability to conjure on-the-spot lyrics, tastefully. Until then, I will keep to the same tune, and from there I will let her teach me new ones, and she will learn familiarity with the melodies I introduce.

"_Christine, _mon ange_, you have pleased me_

"_Angels respond to your cry_

"_Open your mind to my teachings_

"_Let your soul reply!_"

And Christine:

"_Angel of Music, I am ready_

"_Hear as I sing with you!_

"_Calling to me, your voice is lovely_

"_I'll always be listening!_"

"That was marvellous," I tell her, continuing to play.

Christine grins again. "You called me _Angel!_"

"I did," I agree, curious at her reaction.

"Just like Father always called me!"

I still my hand, and the music stops.

"Father said that the Angel of Music called Lotte his Angel too…but surely you know that. Why do you do that, when clearly it is _you_ who are the Angel?"

"Well," I say, humoured, priding myself that I have yet done another thing correctly. "That is because I help my students sing like Angels." A stupid answer, I know, but Christine is immensely satisfied with it.

And from there I lead Christine through a few practise scales, and all lingering doubt slips from my awareness as her talent and her unwavering trust in me—in _me_—brighten the atmosphere, and my dark soul. I smile as I roll her voice through my fingers, all the while knowing that I have undertaken a very large and very permanent endeavour. I am still amazed that such a realisation does not repel me, and even more amazed that is _satisfies_ me. In fact, I did not feel such tremendous satisfaction even after scaring Willem di Renaldi from the Opera. Only when I am composing am I at this much rest with myself. Thinking of this, my new purpose, and anticipating how it will prove to Madeleine my worth, I cannot remember a single time in my past that the Opera Ghost has been pleased to such a great extent.

…

**Madame Giry**

I fingered the letter, numb in my apprehension. I'd read the words dozens of times already. _Enclosed is the full coverage for Christine's tuition_. He had signed it with a flourish, and a P.T.O. with his promise to confer to me her auspices, out of his own pocket, for every month of her ballet lessons at the academy.

Perhaps…perhaps he had only known how much of a struggle it was for me to provide Christine's tutelage, and taken pity on me, or on the girl.

Pity. What a thought! I scowled.

His self-centeredness had spurred me to scold him often throughout his young life. His shame at my scolding once stayed his selfishness, if only temporarily, until he grew to understand his brilliance and to respect me less and find his independence within the Opera's walls. It was this knowledge of his character paired with his generous payment of Miss Daae's tuition that unnerved me. It was not pity—it was surely a desperate ploy to _feign_ pity and prove to me that he did, indeed, have the compassion I once tried to draw from him. _Then_, I thought it would be as natural as drawing poison from a snake—but while poison was common for a snake, compassion never did course through Erik's veins.

He wanted me back. It was possible he thought that pretending to be the man I wanted him to be would bring me to him…perhaps that was what moved him to do such a thing. But why not _my_ daughter—why Christine?

I closed my eyes, settling into the divan, seeking comfort. It _annoyed_ me to no end that he never left my thoughts, and that I was always so suspicious of his intentions—the pest. But I had every reason in the world to be. He prided himself on his detachment and mystery, and his ability to keep me under his hand at all times. He always had.

"_I've found a name!"_

_The boy, however, was nowhere to be seen._

_I shut the cellar doors over my head and continued down the steps. A sole candle was struck, and it provided enough light for the entire room. His mattress was still rolled across the damp floor, and his blanket was folded neatly over it. A basket of half-eaten fruit sat beneath the candle, with pale, rose-coloured parchment, a withered quill pen, and a bottle of ink._

_I approached the parchment, my eyebrows lowered over my eyes, and lifted it. It was music. I could not sight-read, so I hadn't any idea what it sounded like…but it was certainly a complex piece, as the notes were stacked in thick chords and some were scattered about wide scales and collided at every measure with dots and rests._

"_Do you like it?"_

_I nearly jumped from my skin, and surveyed the room. I could not see him, but that didn't mean he wasn't there. "Where are you?"_

"_Here," he said, a grin evident in his voice._

_The sound came from behind the rotting shelf. I folded my arms. "What are you doing behind there?"_

"_Come and see," he replied._

_I followed his voice and peeked behind the shelf._

_Nothing._

"_Where are you?" I repeated, spinning about._

_Far across the room, into the spot where I had been standing, he lowered himself. I gaped at him, and then to the ceiling from where he'd been hiding. Where _had_ he been hiding? All I could see were the thick wooden planks!_

"_I can throw my voice," he beamed proudly. "I was above you the whole time."_

_I cocked my head and walked toward him. "How did you do that?"_

_He shrugged, and dropped to his cot. "Do you like my music?"_

"_I can't read it," I admitted._

_Now it was his turn to gape. His eyes were wide beneath the beaded lady's mask we'd found in the costume department. "What do you mean, you can't read it?"_

_I held out my hands helplessly. "I am a dancer, not a musician…nor a singer."_

_He shook his head, smirking happily. "I suppose I shall have to teach you."_

"_To sing?"_

_He shrugged. "If you'd like. I was referring to reading music." His eyes brightened before his smile did. "I _could_ teach you to sing, in fact."_

_I blushed. "You couldn't teach me to sing even if you wanted to." To think—him, a ten year old boy, teaching myself, a mature adult, anything! He would remember his place, and I would make sure of it._

_The boy set the music down. "I could try."_

"_No," I said. "I am a dancer." I had already said it, but I could think of nothing else. It had been eight days since the Gypsy circus—a day for every year apart in our ages. Eight days of discovering my attachment to the boy without a name. At last, it would change. "I have found a name for you."_

_He crossed his legs on the cot. "I will probably hate it."_

"_No you won't," I scolded playfully, sitting next to him. "Remember it was your idea in the first place."_

"_Then let's have it," he grinned._

_I took his hands. "Bertram."_

_His bright green eyes widened beneath a glare of disgust._

_I laughed happily. "I am only teasing you. I think you look like an Erik." I held my breath. It was Henri's middle name—but I did not want to tell him so._

_In all my life, I never saw such a look of shock. "How did you know that?"_

_I dropped his hands, a bit perplexed at his sudden reaction. "How did I—"_

"_How did you know my name?"_

_I shook my head insistently, dizzying myself even more. "I didn't…I didn't know your…you told me you hadn't one!"_

_The boy looked down, shame flooding his features. "I lied."_

_A long moment of silence passed before I dared speak. "Why?"_

_He lifted his shoulders in a helpless shrug. "I hate my name. I hate the name my mother gave me, because I hate her."_

_I moved a little closer to him. "She named you Erik?"_

_The child nodded._

_I didn't know what to say. It was more than coincidence, I was sure of it…but would an act of God bring such unhappy memories to him? I resolved myself immediately. "I can choose a different name."_

"_No," he said, so quickly that again my head spun. "No. It is my name. I can't escape it, as I have seen so clearly today." He shrugged once more. "I was meant to be Erik, as much as I hate him."_

"_Are you—"_

"_Yes."_

"—_certain?"_

"_I am certain." He smiled a little, a complete change from the brooding soul that flashed before me only a moment before. He bounded from the cot, catching my hand and taking me up with him. I steadied myself, and focused my eyes on his smiling features. "At any rate, the name is much more pleasing to the ear than Bertram, and therefore I accept."_

_I grinned through my concern. "Come now, Erik. To the auditorium. I want to hear you play your music."_

I thought of those days, those years, when he was mine to cherish, to talk to, to play with…when I was innocent, as he never was. We had been children. He was too young and lost, and I was too willing to protect. We were drawn to each other like ambrosia and nectar to the lips of the gods, and at the time it seemed that nothing could sever our bond.

I remembered how he used to ask me to sit next to him as he composed, or how I would beseech him to braid my long hair, and the sound of our mingled laughter as we raced across the rafters at midnight. How ignorant I was when I thought his hands were washed of blood, his soul purified of murder…when I thought Lombardi was the only victim there ever was at the mercy of my sweet Erik. I was ignorant because I believed I knew him, and I believed it was safe that he knew everything about me.

I was, perhaps, the greatest fool in the world, for such a folly. But his eyes were playful then, and his music was tragic, and my soul ached to hold his broken pieces until he was whole again.

I had not feared him then as I did now. Not even when he first adopted his role as the Phantom—a role he would later try to escape, but never could. Even then, I had played along, as if it were a game; I supposed it _did_ start out as one. But when had things changed? We had years of peace, or at least years of contentment…years of friendship, until Fate dealt her hand against us. How fitting, that Eros with his mighty bow might strike one and ignore the other!

It was when I understood that his heart beat for me that I drew back from his silent pleads. It was my withdrawal—my rejection, and his denial of it—that caused him to draw back from his humanity. It had all been such a gradual change: as my words became guarded and my actions stiff, his eyes grew dark and his spirit dangerous. When did it happen that I hesitated before laughing at his jokes? When did it transpire that I jumped at the feel of his hand on my shoulder?

When was the first time he looked at me with longing?

There were some days that I knew. There were others I would not let myself think of it. I could hardly remember that we were once close, whereas now it was unnatural for a word to be spoken between us. He was not the little boy I brought to the opera house. I was no longer the young lady who rescued him. And yet, for all the changes wrought with time, however different we had become, there was a ghost of that unbreakable bond we shared as children, and it would not allow us to leave one another forever.

That was why I returned, after Armande passed. Because as much as I did not know the man who once gripped my soul with his love, his unrelenting fingers had never released me in the first place. And I still did not know how to handle it.

My indecisiveness would be the death of me, I was sure.


	15. Little Lotte, indeed

**Erik**

Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing.

Christine is no different.

Her imagination, I notice, is endless, but that is only when I can coax her thoughts from her creative mind. I once observed that she is shy even in her own presence, and I know now that she is the same in mine. She is a little girl with a mind for strict business, and I note that she is ashamed if she lets herself act like the child she is when she is with me. Every evening before her dinner she retreats to her dressing room silently and inconspicuously, and locks the door. She then sits wordlessly on the floor and waits for me.

I am always there before her, but I like to watch her before beginning our lessons, and listen when she will occasionally sing to herself, to see if she is indeed employing my instructions. She never fails me. In fact, she clings to every word I ever say, and even those times it appears she isn't listening, she soon proves to me that she does. She reads music far better than she reads words—her father never read to her, I've learned, but gave her storeys from his own imagination and encouraged her to do the same. Christine wants to read, and I have adopted the task to teach her _that_ as well.

I have never bothered with the affairs of other human beings. Their lives lack mystery and their priorities are always backward. So I don't know why I take such an interest in Christine's day-to-day, imploring her to talk to me, and finding ways to ease her so she knows it is proper to speak with an Angel on friendly terms. I will ask her of her day, and she will say that it was spent anticipating her next lesson while she danced. I will ask her of her friends, and she will speak of little Giry, and say that other than Meg she has none. She is always eagre to begin singing, to show me that she has been practicing, and wanting to learn more.

Of course…perhaps Christine is only part of my game, the game I have only longed to be reality, the game in which I am a normal man and I have a normal family. Given, my interactions with her are far from normal…but when she speaks to me, and when she listens to me, I can imagine that things are different. It is my game, my own to play, and when I play I can pretend all I like.

I am never conclusive in my thoughts regarding Christine's friendship with Meg. The part of me that wishes to father Christine wants her to have many friends, many dear friends, to preserve her happiness—but then I wish for her to have nothing to do with the world, and to rely solely on _me_ for her comfort. As always, I am still embittered toward little Giry, as she is the product of the union which struck my hold on Madame to pieces, and _his_ daughter. If Christine must have a friend apart from me, does it have to be the bastard-ess of my Madeleine's unholy matrimony? At least Armande is dead, and he has nothing to do with us anymore.

The one thing that can take Christine's mind away from our lessons is when I ask her of her father and her life before the Opera. This is the tactic I always employ when I know she longs to talk and isn't sure how or if she even should. With my encouragement, though, her eyes will fill with happiness, and she will recall all of the storeys that her father used to tell her and tell them back to me with her own relishes and ornamentation. She will relate to me of her travels when her father would go from town to town to play, and how Elaine, and Raoul, and her other little friends would always sit and listen to him sing around a fire at night.

"And what happened when the baker discovered his missing pastries?"

"Oh, he blamed the milk boy, of course," she giggles. And all of a sudden her eyes widen mysteriously, and she whispers, "We never told Father that it was us. You won't tell him now, will you?"

"It is our secret," I whisper back, just as conspiratorially.

She grins an impish grin, and sighs, settling back beside the fireplace. "How I miss Raoul. He always got me out of trouble."

"For such a sweet little girl, Christine," I say to her, "you managed to bring all sorts of mayhem down onto your friends."

"Oh, it wasn't always just me!" she says. "I was never the brave one. I had lots of ideas, but I never would test them unless Raoul or the others encouraged me, or escorted me."

"I thought you said Raoul would get you _out_ of trouble."

"Yes, after he got me _into_ trouble!" she amends, and our laughter mingles musically in the acoustics of the room. "Actually, I never would have done those things if it weren't for Raoul and his friends. I liked to tell storeys and make up all sorts of mischievous things to do, but then _they_ would want _me_ to do them." She sighs. "I suppose I only ever wanted them to accept me the way Raoul did. If it weren't for that, we wouldn't have always been in so much trouble."

"You should never need to prove yourself to gain acceptance," I return, my voice hovering over bitterness. "If the world does not accept you, the world does not deserve you."

She thinks on this for a moment. "I learn so much from you, Angel." She crosses, and uncrosses, her legs. "I am quite a lucky girl to be taught about things from one of God's Angels!"

I am _not_ one of God's Angels. "Lucky…no, Christine, you are blessed, and deserving of it." And to my dismay but acceptance, she darkens a bit, and glances at the floor, her quiet reserve overcoming her again. "All right, child," I smile. "Are you ready?"

She bounds from her spot and stands straight, animated now that our lesson has formally begun.

"Chromatic scales—beginning with middle C, legato."

It amazes me that the little girl has such flawless pitch. I don't even need to play the C on the violin before she lands the note perfectly. Christine sings, effortlessly at first, but as the scales ranges higher she begins to falter.

"The soft pallet, Christine," I remind her; "raise it as if you need to yawn."

Without pausing in her scales, she begins to correct her error. The notes become taller, and her confidence grows. When I tell her to spread her feet, she does so without interrupting her vocals. She takes instructions surprisingly well, and is trained to respond without forgetting every other effort she is momentarily utilising. Surely her father gave her lessons from the time she was much smaller; even those with natural talent are not born with the basics so embedded.

"Stop now, Christine," I instruct before she strains her cords, and she closes her mouth, eyes wide with anticipation of my report. "You constantly astound me with your willingness to be moulded. You've remembered everything your father ever taught you."

She beams, and I know I am correct in my assumption. "His lessons were a great deal like yours, Master."

Master. I have been promoted. "A marvellous teacher, your father," I relish, stroking my own pride.

Christine agrees wholeheartedly. "He must have learned something from you." She plays at the carpet with her toe, and smiles sheepishly. "He was a lot like you, actually, Angel. In fact, when I am with you, I feel like—I feel like I am with _him_ again, and I don't miss him at all."

Good. _Extremely good_, I realise. My role as an Angel is strikingly different than my role as the Phantom—as the latter, I find pleasure in frightening and manipulating. As the former, I find strange, misplaced joy in bringing comfort. To Christine alone, however. Of course, I want to comfort Madeleine, but part of my advantage over her is the fear I instil in her, and I want to _overwhelm_ her with both comfort and fear—this is the proper balance in the unique power I hold over the ballet mistress. Christine is the one soul in the world who will remain exempt from my frightening reign, and for a reason I have yet to fully understand, that pledge brings me happiness. "Christine," I whisper. "My Angel."

Her eyes are flooding with tears ready to spill over. Tears of elation are the only kind I allow her. She smiles up at the ceiling gratefully. How I want her to look in my eyes! "I wish I could tell Madame Giry. She doesn't understand why I am so happy."

_Oh, Madeleine_. "She will understand in time. I promise you." I think of her pretty face and of the concern in her gaze when she held Christine—and her hopeless, yet honourable, attempts to uncover our secret. How…far…we had come, that it had come to this. _I promise. You will understand in time._

But even I do not yet know when that time will be. I once resolved to tell Madame of my tutorship of Christine as soon as I was sure my plan could not fail. Now, I am sure. And Madame still does not know. It is possible that I enjoy her fruitless sleuthing and pride myself that I still keep her under my hand. But it is _more_ _than that_. As much as I am doing this to win my Madeleine back, I do not trust _her_ to trust _me_. It is right then, that I must wait. I must wait until evidence of my influence is so clear in Christine that even Madame, with her untrusting nature, will understand that what I have done is, indeed, a _good thing_.

Her Erik _is_ capable of doing _good things_, really. She merely doesn't yet know that her dark Phantom is an Angel as well.

**A/N…Forgive me that nothing much has happened in the last couple of chapters. Things will pick up soon.**


	16. Legends live, and suspicions never die

**Christine**

"Careful, Christine! Don't say that so loud!"

I shut my mouth tightly as Meg's eyes widened, and after a few seconds, I dared to ask: "Why?"

"Because," she whispered. "He might hear you."

I raised my eyebrows. "How can he hear me if he doesn't even exist?"

Meg's hand clamped over my mouth, and I smiled into it. "You don't know that, Christine. Maman says that even if you don't believe in the Ghost, you shan't say it aloud, or he'll come scare you to prove himself."

I pushed her hand away. I had heard lots of whispers and rumours about a ghost haunting the Opera, but I didn't believe any of them. Especially when Meg tried to convince me. I liked to tease her. "Well, I should say that's a very strange ghost, if he wants people to believe in him so."

"He wants people to believe in him so he can get his way," she informed. "He writes notes to the manager so he'll do what he wants."

_Oh, Meg_. Though she was quite dear to me—how very much her age she acted! "That's not true! A ghost doesn't have a hand, so he could not write!"

"Yes he does!" she insisted, and she glanced around suspiciously. "They say he wears evening dress, but beneath it he's all bones!"

An image came to my mind of a skeleton in a three-piece suit, and I shuddered. "How do you know if you've never seen him?"

"I do know!" she swore. "It's because I have seen him! Lots of times!"

"Meg Giry, that's a lie!" I accused.

"It's true!" She nodded furiously, and then shrugged shamefacedly. "Well, I saw him once or twice—actually it was last year, and I was rounding the corner when I saw him in the shadows, and he was just standing there! And then I looked again and he was gone."

"Did he look like a skeleton?" I asked, and suddenly I was very curious.

"Well…no," she admitted. "It was very dark." She shrugged a second time. "But Joseph Buquet has seen him lots of times. And he says he smells like he's been dead for a thousand years!"

"My goodness." I wrinkled my nose. I would certainly not want to smell a ghost that had been dead for a thousand years—not even a hundred, in fact, or even three. "Well, I think he's just teasing us all."

Meg shook her head solemnly. "Maman says Joseph is going to get it one of these days, because he makes fun of him…and you will too, if you keep saying you don't believe in him! Why, I might as well not believe in the Angel of Music!"

I gasped at her sudden proclamation, and my brow furrowed. "Don't you say that again, Meg Giry!" I demanded, my voice low. She knew how important my Angel was to me, even if she didn't know I'd already met him, and two years _before_. A thrill ran up my spine as I anticipated our next lesson, but I kept a stern face for my friend—though not even her disbelief could dampen my spirits.

Meg shushed me. "I'm not saying that I don't, Christine. I'm just saying…that it is as ridiculous not to believe in the Phantom of the Opera as it is not to believe in the Angel of Music."

I huffed, sensing the disbelief beneath her words. That Meg really did make me mad sometimes. "You know you were only trying to anger me because I do not believe in your Ghost."

"No, Christine!" said Meg, and she grabbed my arm. "Of course I believe in the Angel of Music! Even if he hasn't come yet, I know he will!"

My irritation began to fade as I listened to her last phrase. I looked at my dearest friend, and oh, how I wanted to hug her and tell her the truth, that I had just spoken to my Angel last night! He _was_ real, and he _had_ come to me, just as Father promised. But he didn't want me to tell her. It was awfully hard keeping such a grand secret to oneself. Why, he didn't even want me to sing in front of anyone until I got better!

But I knew it was a good idea. I trusted the Angel entirely, and just like Father, he knew what was best for me. One day I would surprise them all, when I could sing like an Angel. Papa always said I would, too. Surely he was smiling at me from Heaven, that his promise had turned out so perfectly. It was as if he'd never passed away at all.

"Oh, Meg," I cried, and gave her a hug. "I'm so happy."

"Me too!" said Meg. "Maman said we could have a white cake tonight after supper if we practised well today. Why are you happy?"

I let her go and smiled, my thoughts filled with my Angel. "Nothing," I said, and hugged her again. "I'm so happy you are my friend." I wondered if my Angel could see me now, and if he was proud that I didn't give away our secret.

…

**Madame Giry**

"Marguerite Giry," I snapped. "And Christine Daae."

The two small heads whipped in my direction, and their embrace was broken.

"Are you dancers or are you not?"

"Yes, Maman," said Meg, and Christine nodded. They continued their stretches.

In the two years that Christine had been with us, she and Meg had become fast friends. I encouraged their friendship, for Christine's sake especially—it was not easy for her to make friends. The first two months of her stay, she had been easily upset. The slightest snide comment from another girl would have her in tears, but she would not accept consolation—instead, she cried her shame in private, and feigned happiness for my own sake. She spoke of the Angel of Music and asked me constantly if he'd come yet and if I'd seen him. Of course, that was only the first two months.

Then came the violin, and the dressing room, and the tuition.

When first he took the violin, I had thought it was for his own selfish purposes. He did not think stealing below him at all; his twisted logic was that the world had taken enough from him already, and that allowed him to reap what he did not sow and take back whatever he wanted. And of course, the violin belonged to Gustave Daae, a great musician if there ever was one—what better prize to obtain for himself, and what better victim to steal it from than a naïve child who wouldn't know what to do with it?

But then had come the note to M Lefevre, demanding that the dressing room suite be given to Christine. When the manager had called me into his office, I merely expected him to rave a bit, and attempt to guilt me into using my "influence" on the Ghost to make him _reconsider_ his outrageous demands. A thought if ever there was! I did sit patiently as he read, like any proper ballet mistress should, long-since amused at the cynical complaints the notes always surfaced. But then…"_one Christine Daae_"…and my attention was gained.

Thinking on his theft of her father's violin, I'd concluded that he'd taken some sort of interest in her. Perhaps he favoured her because he knew she was dear to me and I was obliged to her. But what would that prove? And why Christine, instead of Meg? I had so many questions that I dared not ask. If he didn't want to speak to me, it could be dangerous demanding an audience.

_Of course he wants to speak with you_. I shook the thought from my head, though I knew it was true. His pride wouldn't allow him to make the first move, but I would not indulge him.

Then things began to change. His generous payment of her tuition, of course. But things began to change in Christine as well. From the day she'd been given the dressing room, in fact. The little girl I sent in was not the little girl who came out to join us for practise. Her reservation hadn't left her at all, but it was of a different sort. It wasn't shyness that distanced her from the other girls, but whatever it was, it was trancelike—almost otherworldly. The sadness of her eyes had fled, and she never lost her smile. She would gaze constantly into the rafters, and visit the chapel every morning and her dressing room every night, and though it was clear to everyone that her mind was caught up in fantasies without rest, she never spoke to _anyone_ of those fantasies again.

With the exception of Meg. I learned all I could about Christine's doings from Meg, but even Meg didn't have much to tell me—but that occasionally Christine would tell her dreamily of her father's fantastic storeys. But only to Meg. She never spoke to me about her father, or anything else, for that matter. She was always so quiet, obedient and always lost, in some other world.

At first I blamed _him_, and worked constantly to sort things together. Christine was nearly always in my sight, but when she asked to pray for her father, and the hour before supper that I tutored Meg and Miss Daae retreated to her dressing room. Over time, I abandoned the suspicion—nothing I had tried had succeeded, and I was certain he laughed at my feeble attempts. Besides; our resident Phantom showed no further interest in the child, and had certainly become exhausted of the idea that his "kindness" would deter me, as I made no effort to approach him.

In all ways but one, I abandoned my suspicion. I still had yet to convince my heart that he had nothing to do with her at all.

When practise ended, I retired to my flat, but even there, I knew I might not be alone. I hadn't felt his presence as frequently in these past years, but he often watched me. In fact…his lack of attention toward me bothered me a bit. I was not sure why, exactly; it was not that I wanted it—heavens, no, I never did!—but it was such a change, a strange one, and unsettling. I sat at the divan in front of my vanity, staring at my reflection. My hair was long, a pale red-gold, bundled atop my head to heighten the strict image I worked hard to create. My skin was clear and smooth, but with definite lines from my nose to the corners of my mouth, and creases between my brow, made permanent by the constant stern expression I always cared to wear. And then, my eyes. I loathed looking into my own eyes; all I saw within them was regret, and sorrow, masked by hard indifference. But I could see effortlessly through that front, and I didn't like anything beneath it.

"You aren't the only one who wears a mask, Erik," I sighed.

Erik. Oh, Erik.

He knew me well. In fact, he was the only living person who knew me at all. I smirked. _Calling the Ghost a living person now, are we?_ He'd known me longer than…anyone. How long had it been? Sixteen long, long years. That one horrible look between us, as he stood over the lifeless body of his Gypsy master, and I, halfway out of the tent, looking on in dismay, had sealed our fate. He hadn't known what I would do, and neither had I, until I did it, and sprung him free of the cage, to lead him to what would become his home and his domain to haunt.

I hadn't known it would be like this. If I had….

"Oh, I don't _know_ what I would have done," I cried, and my head fell forward into my hands. I leant on the dresser, heaving, and shocked at myself, biting back my tears. How long had it been since I last cried? I had never wanted Erik to see me cry, and thus I never did. I should not have cared now. If I cried, it was because of him. But that morbid comfort did nothing to give me release—the tears remained standing within my eyelids, and I held my head soundlessly, knowing perfectly that it was my own fault that he loved me, and that it was my own fault that I didn't love him back. _Can't you see? I wanted you to be like my son! I wanted my Henri back! Why did you have to make it so hard for me to see you that way?_

Behind me, the door creaked, and I froze. _It's him_.

"Madame Giry?"

I whipped around, my heart flooding with relief, to see that it wasn't him at all, but little Christine. _But why does that disappoint you, Madeleine_? I turned back to the vanity, swiping at my face with a handkerchief, though no tears had fallen. "Yes, Christine."

"Oh Madame, you look as if you might cry!" She rushed to me and took my hand.

I smiled at her, knowing full well that it shocked her to see me in such a state, my eyes red and my hair mussed. "Sometimes, people have to cry, Christine." I forced the words to register in my brain, irately trying to convince myself that a good cry every once in awhile was natural—not something to be ashamed of.

She nodded sympathetically and stroked my hand. At least I could convince her.

I sniffled and straightened, ordering myself to regain my composure. Laughing a little through a sigh, I stood. "Was there something you wanted?"

Christine hesitated. "Actually…" she began, and then stopped. Hesitated. "Well, I wanted to know something, but it really isn't all _that_ important."

"Nonsense," I said, and turned to her. "Young minds must ask questions. That is a _very_ important thing. It is the only way you'll learn."

She grimaced, and nodded. "Well, I was wondering…about the Phantom. The Phantom of the Opera."

I knelt before her quickly, my sorrow forgotten, recognising this as my chance, to put all of the unease that had accumulated for two years to rest. "Have you seen something, Christine? Has something spoken to you?"

Christine's eyes were wide, and she stiffened beneath my grasp. "Why, n-no," she stammered, and I relaxed my fingers, unsure. "But all of these strange things always happen, and the chorus boys whisper about the Phantom, and M Buquet always tells such storeys! And Meg tells me that there _is_ a ghost, and she says that you believe in him…well, I just wanted to ask if he was real, because I think Meg is only teasing me."

I searched her eyes. Dilated with wonder and curiosity, but masked with forced disbelief, as if it would be a foolish thing to hope for. Hope for? Purely innocent and sincere. _So then, Erik_, I thought. _You haven't revealed yourself to her at all_. "There have always been legends," I said to her, carefully, and probed her gaze one last time before standing. "But legends always stem from truth."

"Then there is a ghost!" she cried, tugging at my hand.

"There is a ghost here," I agreed matter-of-factly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "And he does not like to be bothered, or talked about."

"Is that why you say Joseph Buquet is going to get it some day?"

I stared at her, realising that I would have to make my point clearer. "Joseph Buquet does not make the Phantom happy with all his talk…and you would be wise not to speak of him either."

"Oh," she said, and then continued in a whisper: "But Meg and the other girls talk about him all the time. And some of them say you _know_ him. Is that true? And will the other girls get it some day as well?"

I closed my eyes. I spoke of my relationship with the Phantom to no one. "The other girls will need a warning, then."

Christine let out a tiny gasp. "Oh, don't tell them that I told you! They don't like me much, Madame Giry."

I squeezed her hand. "Why do you suppose that is?" My words mimicked Erik's, as he once often said the same to me when we were on speaking terms, when I would try fruitlessly to reason with him on the basis of the natural things of the world. He, of course, was never one to understand what was _natural_. And neither of us were excellent judges of the world.

Christine's shoulders lifted in a shrug, and she was silent for a moment. "I suppose it is because I like storeys, and fantasies. But Meg does, too, and they don't mind her a bit! They didn't like it when I talked about the Angel of Music, but I think they're just jeal—"

At Christine's abrupt halt, I turned to her. Her mouth was fixed in a perfect "o" and her eyes were wide open. She quickly clamped her jaw shut.

"You haven't spoken of the Angel of Music in a long time," I observed, wondering at her odd reaction, and being a naturally suspicious person….

"No, that's because—" She scrunched up her face, as if desperately searching for an answer. "That is because he doesn't like being talked about." And then she closed her eyes. "I mean, that's what Father always said, that he doesn't like—"

"That never stopped you from going on and on about him before," I said lightly, as strange new thoughts began to forme in the back of my mind. New thoughts that I had been suspicious of before—two years before.

"Well—" Again she stopped.

She was at such a loss for words that I knew something was wrong. "Tell me the truth, Christine," I demanded. "Why don't you speak of the Angel anymore? Why don't you speak of your father?"

Her bottom lip was trembling. Her eyes were furiously thrown about, and they landed on the door. "I don't miss my father anymore."

Her words struck me. That couldn't be true—Christine could never be that heartless. "Of course you do, silly girl! It is entirely acceptable to miss him, you know," I said, kneeling again before her. "You do not have to forget about him."

"No!" she said, and she bit her tongue at her sudden harshness. "I suppose, I haven't forgotten about him. And I haven't forgotten about the Angel either. But all I have to do is think about the Angel and I don't _miss_ him anymore."

"Why not think about your father instead of the Angel when you miss him?" I enquired, rubbing her shoulder.

"Because," she said pointedly. "Papa left me a memory. I can talk to the Angel, and he talks back."

My eyebrows raised sharply, and somewhere in my chest I felt a sudden sense of dread, that struck with every heartbeat. "He talks _back?_ Has the Angel finally come to visit you?"

"No," she insisted. "In my dreams, he talks back." And she reddened, and her eyes would not meet mine, as if she had been caught in a lie. "Madame Giry, can I go find Meg and play?"

I beheld her for a moment silently, and then nodded. "Of course, Christine."

I released her shoulders and stood, and she bolted for the door. A second later, though, she peeked her curly head back in. "Madame? Are you still sad?"

My heart thumped at the compassionate child. "I am, Christine. But it is entirely acceptable to be sad sometimes."

She nodded solemnly and gave me a small smile.

"And Christine?" She glanced up. "If you ever want to talk to me about your father—or the Angel of Music—I will always listen."

She nodded again, and disappeared.

I sat again before my vanity, and again I put my head in my hands—but this time, there were no tears begging to spring from my eyes. Only thoughts. Thoughts that filled me with wonder, and apprehension. Thoughts that had begun when Christine had mentioned the Angel of Music.

Gustave's violin.

_No_. I shook my head. "No, that's not possible." And I would prove to myself that it was not possible. A plan had formulated throughout our conversation, and I would put all doubts to rest through it. "God, protect me," I prayed silently, and I forced myself not to think of his temper—his dangerous temper. I swiftly stood, checked my reflection in the mirror, and left the room.


	17. An unexpected presence

**Erik**

Christine is troubled.

I am a receptive person, and that is the power that feeds my lust to manipulate. God has not given me many of His blessings, but I understand _why_, because for _His_ benefit I have used none of them. Intuition, for example. My intentions are far different from His. With my intuition I sense emotions; with my intuition I _use_ people. Above most every other emotion, though, I can sense fear. I trained myself to recognise it years ago, when Madeleine's fear of me first became evident. And what I am sensing from Christine now is fear.

"Child, you will never sing properly until you learn to relax."

"I'm sorry, Master," she breathes, and she tries in vain to easy herself, which results in nothing but a stance more rigid and an aura more anxious than before.

I sigh, exasperated. "You will tell me what is wrong, Christine, or we'll never get anything done today."

Her face falls as she hears my impatience, and she nods obediently. "Well," she begins, "I think I'm scared of ghosts."

That's it? My face breaks into a grin. "Is that all?"

She hears the smile through my question, and her face hardens in indignation. "You would be too, if you discovered that there was a ghost very well haunting _your_ house!"

I force the smile from my lips, and though inside I am still laughing, my voice adopts an authoritative tone. "Christine, respect me."

Again she falters. "Forgive me, Angel."

"Now," I encourage. "Why do ghosts frighten you?"

She shrugs her shoulders slightly, her eyes cast downward. "Meg told me storeys about the Phantom of the Opera."

My name. My title. So Christine has finally become indirectly acquainted with the other half of my soul. I have made a conscious effort for the past two years not to cause havoc in Christine's presence; I have never wanted to cause her to fright. Of course it is unavoidable, as she has discovered the existence of the Phantom by a means other than my own doing. I don't know what to think of that, but it fills me with—amusement. And regret. And anger at that regret. But mostly, for now, hearing the wonder in her voice…amusement.

"I didn't want to believe her, but I was so curious! I went to Madame Giry to ask her about it, and she said that he _was_ real, but that if I talked about him too loudly he would get me someday."

I chuckle. "She told you that?"

Christine pauses. "Well, Meg said that she said he'd get Joseph Buquet one day because he talks about him, so I suppose that if I talk about him as well, he may get me one day too. That's what frightens me a little."

My hands grip the violin a bit, and my lips forme a smirk around my set jaw and clenched teeth. Madeleine knows me too well if she knows of my loathing toward Buquet…the pig. "Then I suppose Buquet should learn to hold his tongue."

"Oh," says Christine quietly. She quivers a bit. "Then do you think he will come after us for talking about him?"

"Oh, Christine," I chide lightly, "you have nothing to fear. Don't you believe in me? I will always protect you."

She visibly brightens at this. "Really?"

"Yes. But I can assure you, child, even without my protection you would be safe from the Phantom. Are you frightened of me?"

"Why no," she insists, puzzled.

"Am I any different from a ghost?"

She thinks about this for a moment. "I suppose not, in some ways…but you're a friendly spirit."

I wonder if I am about to completely destroy the image I've worked years to maintain. Do I want to soothe her fears so much that I would risk that? "The Phantom of the Opera should be thought of in a similar manner. As long as you don't hurt him, he will not hurt you. Buquet should fear him not because he talks about him, but because of the things he says about him."

Christine seems to absorb this new information, and I can see the evident relief that settles over her features. "I'm glad." Her face looks distant. "The other ballet girls say Madame Giry knows him."

My curiosity has been piqued throughout the whole conversation, and is heightened even more at this. "Did you enquire her about this claim?"

"I did," she replies, "but she didn't tell me very much. I don't think she was in a very happy mood, otherwise. When I saw her she was nearly crying! She also said that it was acceptable to be sad, which _I_ think is entirely—"

"Madeleine was crying?" I demand, and then realise the stupidity of that action. "Why, I mean to ask, was your mistress crying?"

"She wasn't crying, but she was almost—how do _you_ know her name's Madeleine?" Christine demands.

I pause. Something is terribly wrong, if she was near tears, and that is what caused my outburst. The last time I saw her cry was when she left with—no, it is pointlessly obtuse to think of that day, and of her distastefully moustache'd beau. But what sort of travesty causes her to want to cry now? "I know a great deal more than you might guess," I say gently. "I am your teacher, Christine, and I watch over you…but I watch over Madame Giry as well."

"Do you?" she enquires, her face filling with curiosity, and a measure of possessiveness, which for a moment stuns me. "Do you teach her to sing like an Angel too?"

"Absolutely not," I assure, smiling darkly at the thought, and the memories of the few, short-lived lessons in which I _did_ try to teach her. "You alone, Christine. I only look after her to keep her safe."

"Does she know that you're there? Because sometimes I think she doesn't even believe in the Angel of Music."

_How_ will I answer this? What exactly have my genius antics gotten me into now? "She knows I protect her," I say carefully, and truthfully, "but she does not know that I am the Angel of Music."

"Well why don't you tell her!" exclaims Christine. "Because then she would certainly stop asking me questions about you all of the time." She lowers her voice. "Actually, I think I almost gave our secret away…but it was because she wouldn't stop asking so many questions!"

I close my eyes and exhale slowly, releasing my irritation. _Has it come to this already?_ "What did she ask…and what did you say?"

Christine's face, once again, falls, and I am struck at how greatly my words affect her mood. "Do not be angry, Angel!" she pleads. "I didn't tell her!"

"I know, Christine. I only want to know what was said."

She knits her brow and blinks several times. "She asked me if the Angel had come yet, and if he spoke to me. And she asked me why I never spoke of you or Father anymore. I tried to tell her that you hadn't come, but I felt so horrible lying…oh, I just wish she'd never asked at all! She told me to tell her the truth. I think she knew I wasn't being honest…but if she doesn't even believe in you, then she shouldn't have thought I was being dishonest in the first place!"

I pace slowly back and forth in the narrow corridor, glancing at Christine through the mirror. It is fascinating, really, that I can see her so clearly, but she cannot see me at all. "Do not tear yourself apart over the guilt of a simple lie. You handled the situation correctly, Christine," I whisper. "But you would do well not to mention me again."

She hangs her head, ashamed. "Of course not. Not ever again." Her small white teeth chew at her bottom lip. "But isn't it…isn't it a sin to lie?"

Sin. "A sin against whom?"

Christine scrunches her face. "Against Madame…and against God too!"

I roll my eyes and release an exasperated sigh. Must God have so much importance? "It is a protection in Madame's favour, not a sin against her. And God…." I pause, unsure how to answer. To give her the truth is to admit that her Angel wants nothing to do with his Creator. Fine by me, of course…but it will distort everything she's ever learnt of Angels, and such a contradiction will only fuel disbelief and distrust. "I will tell you this once, Christine, that you may remember it when such circumstances present themselves again: there are greater sins against God than a necessary lie that springs from good intentions."

My pupil meditates on this new divine bit for a moment, and nods importantly, though her newfound revelation does not overwhelm her shame. "I shall not forget that, not ever…and I shall never mention you to Madame again until you instruct me otherwise, Master."

"Good." I cease my pacing. I will think of this later. I have another question yet. "Why, did you say, was Madame Giry crying…or nearly crying, as you said?"

She lifts her head a bit. "I really don't know. She said that sometimes people just need to cry. And she said that it was entirely acceptable to be sad sometimes."

If those were her words, then they are easily to decipher. She was not distraught because of a sudden and specific cause at all. Those are the words of a soul that has hardened itself against pain, but knows its breaking point and will not deny that pain when said point arrives. She is hurting, and she has been hurting for a long, long time. And no doubt, at all, it has something to do with me. At once, though, I shake the thoughts from my head. _No_. If she is hurting, it is her own fault, and if the blasted woman wanted me to know it, she would have found a way.

I sneer at her obstinacy.

Christine's sweet soprano sweeps me out of my thoughts.

"_Angel of Music, why so silent?_

"_I am prepared; teach me!_

"_If I've done something wrong, forgive me_

"_Turn not away, Angel!_"

I bring my hand to my malformed lips at her words, so troubled and considerate in her lovely little melody…and immediately drop it, cursing myself for acquiring such a ridiculous stance. Instead of thinking on my own vulnerability when it comes to Christine, I reflect on the effectiveness of my teachings. Her lyrical capabilities have improved so quickly over the months! I am proud of myself, and I sing back to her:

"_Christine, oh Christine, guiltless child!_

"_You've done no wrong, Angel!_"

Her eyes close at the sound of my voice, and she presses her lips together in a smile, highlighting her dimples deeply.

As our lesson progresses, Christine's happiness is restored. At the same time, my own is slowly fading. For the first time since I began tutoring the little girl, my thoughts are completely astray. And not to mention, _conflicted_. Though the human part of me wants to hold my Madeleine and kiss away her tears, _I_ want even more to release on her every last pent-up shred of anger she's caused—so she will know just what she has done to me, and just what she is making me do to win her love. I once thought sharing my soul with a phantom was difficult enough, but suddenly an Angel? Before, I was content that my life was a tugging match between Erik and the Phantom…now I believe that Erik is only a spectator, and the real fight is between the Demon and the Angel.

The lesson ends with Christine in a smile, and I know we have been successful once again. But once she has left the dressing room, I collapse to the cold stone floor and tear my mask from my face. Each holds the other's gaze for several moments—the mask smirks at me, and I glare at it. "I've kept you where I have wanted you for a very long time," I hiss at it. "Why are you trying to resurface?"

It does not audibly answer me, but I hear it nonetheless, the Phantom's voice, in my head, in my mind. _You will need me—very soon_.

My lips are pursed as my eyes follow every outline. I have several masks, but this is the one that exemplifies me, and I scarcely wear anything else. It was eight years earlier that I made a cast of my own naked face with wet plaster. All of my masks up until then had been full and not made for my face alone. But this one would conceal only the Devil's mark on my otherwise human face, and it would fit every contour perfectly—I would make sure of it. The feel of the thick plaster against my skin was suffocating, and I remember wondering if the mask would feel the same way, as it would be a second skin to me. I sent the face cast with Madame Giry to the shoemaker, and with his finest and sturdiest white leather he used the cast to mould a perfect mask for my face.

I still remember the way Madeleine's hands trembled as she handed the mask to me, and watched me fit it to my face for the first time. Her eyes hadn't left me then, and I had not been sure what to make of the foreign and new expression they held, as if she was beholding me, the Opera Ghost, for the first time. I had no thoughts to place at all. All I knew was that something had changed. I had finally found a way to show my face and hide my deformity at the same time. And I understood just how intimidating—and even _appealing_—the result had been the first time I looked into a mirror afterwards. Madame's strange reaction excited me. Marvelling at my reflection, I realised to what extent I needed this mask, and just how much it had become my deliverance—for when I looked in the mirror, for the first time in my life, I saw myself and I did not shudder.

"Yes, I need you," I growl at it, and dip my face into it once more.

The violin once again in my right hand, and the torch in my left, and my mask securely on my face, I retreat back down the passageway, where it will lead me into the depths of the Opera.

I am nearly to the exit of the passage, where the dressing room is no longer visible even in the torch's brilliant illumination, when suddenly Madeleine appears. Sitting on steps that wait just beyond the passage, her hands folded on her knees, her eyes staring straight ahead…an image of churning fire trapped in depths of ice, and my heart sits atop dark stone steps, within glaring distance from me.

Perhaps it is a dream—but in my dreams, Madame never feels so cold.


	18. To invite an Angel's wrath

**Erik**

I pause. She _will see_ me if I venture any further. Surely she has already sighted the glow from the torch…but she doesn't run. "Why aren't you leaving," I breathe inaudibly. "Why are you here in the first place?" She has never been in my lair, but she has been this far before, and I know that she does not dare go any further. Why is she here, again?

The question is fleeting; the answer is clear. If she has come here, and she is not departing when she knows I see her, she has only one purpose. She is demanding my presence. She _wants_ to see me.

My body is still frozen. I am completely at a loss as to what to do next. I have been this close to her, and even shared a precious few words with her from my hiding places, but we have not confronted each other in years. Since she left with the _Giry_ boy; no, since she first returned, and I held her child. We were different then…my head spins, and my mind fiercely battles with my heart. Whereas my mind tells me to back up and take another passage until I am away from her, my heart tells me to continue forward, to see her, talk to her. There is a sudden end to the argument when I realise that my heart is already torn to shreds, and it has nothing to lose.

The violin is safely wrapped into my cloak by now. I take a step forward, and then another, my anger growing as severe as my desire.

I am in clear sight of her now, but she does not glance up or acknowledge my presence. Her stern look and her avoidance of my gaze tells me one thing: she will not say the first word. _You can walk right past her. It's not too late_, part of me tries to warn myself…but whether that part is Erik, or the Phantom, or the Angel, I have absolutely no idea, no premonition at all—and that is, unexplainably, infuriating to my pride. The firelight dances in her eyes and warms her entire presence, casting her complexion a pale rose-gold and her hair a fiery red-gold…and all I see is colour, and heat, and fierceness.

"Madeleine," I whisper, stopping in front of her.

Her eyes do not meet mine still. "You will call me Madame."

As it resurrects pain-filled memories of our first days together, her reprimand stings, but the intensity of her eyes as she glares at the nothingness ahead of her sets my skin ablaze with a flame different than simple _anger_. I circle her slowly and come to a halt when I am directly behind her, and kneel silently. "How quaint of you to pay me a visit," I growl, "after so long. Welcome _back_ to my home. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten that your Phantom has a _phy_sical as well as supernatural existence, my dear!" To antagonise her now, now that she is here, is stupid and childish, but the mere _sight_ of her simmers fury within my blood.

Her eyes slide into my vision. "You misinterpret my intentions," she hisses, and she turns to face me; we both stand in one accord, slowly and dangerously. I am taller than she is naturally, a great deal, but as I am situated on the higher step, I've even _more_ of an intimidating stance.

"You are a fair amount _less_ of a mystery than that," I retort slowly, leaning toward her; she retreats an inch, though I have not touched her. She feels me, still. "You have come to discover exactly what I have planned for the little Daae girl." Her incensed eyes do not leave my unblinking ones; I keep them wide, for her. "I have seen you looking for me, Madame, eagerly watched, and have been thus far _bitterly_ disappointed by your wasted attempts."

She steps a bit to the side; I match her move. Our bodies are drawn to each other even when she seeks to avoid me. "Then you know why I have come here." She purses her lips, as if to contain a sneer. She is the only one who dares. "And I have discovered what I needed to know, exactly as I intended, _Monsieur le Fantôme_…or perhaps, more appropriately, _Ange de Musique?_"

She knows. She heard, then. I inhale silently as she seethes in her vainglorious stance. "I must admit, I am impressed, Madame. I underestimated your courage." She heard. She heard everything. I step down to her level to bring us closer; my nonchalant response has daunted her. "Surely you've been warned of how _dang_erous involving one's self in the Phantom's affairs has proven to be."

Not as daunted as first I guessed. She takes the opportunity and leaves the step we both occupy for the one I removed myself from, and I find myself even with her. It is indeed a good move, except now our eyes are level, and our gaze is more in tact than ever. "I have seen your worst," she declares, and for a moment my hands ache to strike her. _No, Madame, you have not!_ "You've always known it's no longer for myself I worry."

"But you should," I whisper gravely. If she cannot feel my desire, she is insensitive. If she chooses not to _heed_ it—she is critically senseless.

"An Angel." Her disbelief beckons a smile; her rage suppresses it. "An _Angel_." Her body is rigid, and her eyes are no longer watching my movements. Instead, they are glaring into my own. But I notice how her fingers dig into her hands—her _moist_ hands—and she swallows.

She feels my desire. She feels her own.

My head is light as I remember the last time I felt wanted by her. Madame does not fear _my_ longing as much as she fears hers. "Yes, an Angel!"

"You don't know _what_ you are doing, Erik," my beloved accuses in her tantalisingly low voice. _Yes, I do—and you do, as well_. "You will never know how much this girl's father meant to her, and how much you will hurt her when—"

"Hurt her?" With my violin in one hand, I whirl my cloak around her and pull her back onto the lower step; in the same swift motion that I draw her into me, I release the torch into a vacant frame. She wants this. My adrenaline drowns out all thoughts, and all incredulity, that for the first time _in years_ she is in _my arms_. Her back is pressed up against my chest, and I move my arms around her forme, crushing her so that she cannot move. In my right hand is the violin and the bow; my left arm is wrapped around her stomach. I lower my chin to her neck as she gasps and begins to struggle. "_Shhhh_," I breathe, and I brush my lips against her jaw line; she inhales sharply again, and stills. "How can _music_—" I draw my hand across her stomach slowly—"hurt anyone?" I reach up leisurely and take the bow from my right hand, and hold the violin in position around her body. Dragging the bow down the strings, I begin to play—slowly, slowly, with a rhythm that matches my careful breath. Her hand rises just as slowly to my face, and my mind dizzies as her fingers begin to stroke my jaw. _She wants this_. I hum in her ear, and feel the rise and fall of her chest; her breathing begins to match my own. I whisper her name, "Madeleine," and then, as I continue my ministrations with the violin, I sing:

"_I owe my soul to you_

"_I'm only whole with you_

"_Standing beside me_

"_In your eyes the music summons_

"_Whispers so soft, forlorn_

"_Within me, songs unborn_

"_Cry, 'Let me love you'_

"_Say that you will_

"_Say that you love me too_."

She is in my arms, she is stroking my face, and I have dreamt of this moment forever. What, then, is this unease?

"I am yours," I whisper into her ear…but perhaps she does not hear it.

The torch flickers.

…

**Madame Giry**

My heart crashed within my chest.

I felt his cheek against the side of my neck, warm, and slightly rough, as if he'd neglected to shave. His breath on my collarbone—his arms tight around mine, his chest against my back…and his voice. I knew something was wrong…surely this was wrong. _Get away_, a voice screamed in the back of my mind. And another one urged, ever so gently, _Give in_. As his rich, masculine baritone caressed my eardrum, I was able to retain one thought: isn't it ironic, that the voice which screams is hardly heard against the voice which every so gently urges? The hypnotic music that left his lips with his breath froze every limb in my body, and my mind could hardly decipher the words at all.

_I'm only whole with you_…he said that. I'd heard it before—not, not heard it, but I knew it. My mind reached for the meaning, half motivated by…longing…and half by warning.

Slowly, the violin music died away, and I felt as he drew the instrument back into his cloak and removed it from his shoulders with a single hand, laying it gently on the ground, and that hand came around me again. _In your eyes the music summons_…. The words slowly began to make sense, long after he'd sung them. One hand gently caressed my neck and jaw; the other moved down to my waist, and I exhaled slowly as his fingertips sent forgotten sensations throughout my body. Inside of his whispers, I heard my name again. "Touch me, Madeleine." _Let me love you. _The fingers of his right hand slowly began to drag up, higher over my stomach, higher…. "I _need_ you." I moved against him, one of my hands blindly exploring his jaw, the other covering his own and massaging his fingers while guiding him cautiously across my body. The instant before his fingers found my bosom, his left hand moved down my arm, and without warning he spun me around. My eyes flew open, and my heart stopped completely as I gazed into the brilliant turquoise gems of his own. His eyes—the Opera Ghost's eyes—dilated with rapture and disbelief. _Say that you will_…. His mouth was open as he, trembling, drew in air, and he pulled me even closer into his frame. I closed my eyes as he began to close his, and with a gasp of pleasure, I felt his warm breath on my lips.

_Say that you love me too_.

I jerked. "No!"

The Phantom pulled his head away from mine, his gaze imploring me.

I pushed violently against his body, and he released me, his arms falling loosely to his sides…his chest rising as he fought for breath, just as I did. I took several steps backwards, and fell back against the stone wall. How dare he—how _dare_ he! How could he even—after all that I'd said—after all we'd been through, after so many years…. "What have you done?"

He stared at me helplessly, and I was paralysed by the gaze in his blue-green eyes—pure, and terrified, rejection. My heart began to break, even in my absolute anger and disgust. "What have I done?" I cried, and I sank slowly to the cold, cracked floor of the step below me, tears and sobs gushing simultaneously. _This_ was why I left so many years ago. I closed my eyes so I wouldn't have to look into his any longer. I had learnt what I'd needed to learn and said what I'd needed to say…_why_ did I stay? Only to give him _hope_ again? Only to offer him a taste of what he'd longed for since I first rescued him…to snatch it away _forever?_

"Oh, Erik," I sobbed, my tears flooding my hands and filling my soul with shame, shame that was too deep and terror-filled for words, even. _You idiot, Madeleine!_

He knew not to touch me, but it was all too clear that he ached to. Through my fingers I could see him step toward me, and then step back, and lean against the wall to bring his head into his hands. A knot began to forme in my gut as I contemplated his shock and helplessness. _Oh, no_. I had seen this before, and I knew what to expect—and dread flooded me. "Madame," came his plea. He dropped his hands, and his fists were clenched. His eyes remained on the wall opposite him. "WHY!" The anguished roar resonated off of every wall and every step, and a shudder ran through me. I looked up at him, terrified. After his initial uncertainty came his anger, and then…. His hands were stretching and retracting like claws, and I knew he was looking for something, anything, to throw. His anger almost always led to destruction.

His eyes fell to the violin.

"Don't," I cried, but he did not hear me, and he did not need to besides. He valued the thing far too much to ruin it. I dared to hope: did he value me as much? And then slowly—silently—he turned in my direction. Silently. In his rage, silence was far from a good thing. He was silent. I looked up at him, cowering into the step behind me. "Erik—"

"SHUT UP!" he bellowed, and his hands went to his hair, twisting it beneath his fingers, and I remembered that it didn't hurt him because it was not real. His feet dragged as he made his way toward me. "You—you _siren_," he hissed.

Hitting against his side with every step was the _lasso_. Horror gripped my heart—no, my entire body—as he came closer to me, his hands clenching and unclenching, the most furious wrath in his eyes that I had ever seen. I had spat at him that I'd seen his worst…and I was to see it again. "Don't," I choked out; "think of what—"

"How _could_ _you?_" he snarled, his large hand swooping down on me like a hawk; I shielded my face, but instead he grabbed up my wrist, and yanked me into a standing position. I yelped from the pain. "You knew when you came to me how much I needed you, and still you came! You knew when you were in my arms that you would deny me, and yet you remained just long enough to des_troy_ me!" His deep growl cracked with emotion. He gave me a hard shove against the wall, and his brow rose to match a sadistic and mocking grin that left as quickly as it appeared. "Did you like what you felt, Madame? Or was it fear that kept you immobile in my _embrace?_" With that last word, he managed to let me go long enough to produce the length of rope from his side. Before I could grasp what he was doing, I shielded my neck with my free hand, and the rope came around me above my shoulders. "Fear of _this?_" he growled, and he tightened the rope; it caught on my hand and dug into the sides of my neck. The back of my hand was drawn against my eye and cheek. Only my wrist prevented the lasso from stopping my breath entirely, but my throat still constricted, and my voice was hardly audible. _He is going to kill me_.

My mind, what was left of it, briefly returned to a moment years before, as he stood in front of me cautiously, and his words then: "_Madeleine, do not fear me_."

His wide, insane gaze dropped to my neck where the lasso gripped it. "Or _this?_" His face plunged to my throat and he ravaged it below the cord. It was horrible—the sensations of his lips and teeth and hot breath on my skin mingling with the rough, deadly constraints of the rope. _I am going to die_. Just as suddenly, he left my neck and glowered down at me menacingly. His eyes no longer held the sorrow, the torment—only anger, and hatred, and I knew he couldn't see my tears or hear my pleas, as I tried to cry out for him to forgive me. "There _is_ no forgiveness without _sacrifice_, Madeleine! I would take from you every last bit of what you owe me—" his left hand snaked across my collar bone beneath the suffocating lasso, and his right hand pressed into my hip and crept up across my stomach—"but for my promise before a God I loathe never to take to my bed a _woman_—" and suddenly, to my absolute shock, he released me—"who was not first my _wife!_"

I crumpled once more to the floor, gasping for breath, my sobs uncontrollable. The lasso hung limply about my shoulders, and I pulled my hand from it, the hand that had saved me.

Erik stood over me, his feet wide apart, one arm still in the air. His fingers were curled tightly around the end of the rope. His hair was wild with exertion and sweat around his face and mask, and his white shirt hung open to reveal his heaving chest. He gaped at me, his mouth open and his eyes ferocious as he beheld the scene, and I stared into the blue-green intensity, my thoughts colliding between thanking God and begging Him all at once. Slowly, the rage that had overcome Erik began to melt, and deep anguish began to pool into the brightly coloured orbs. His breath became ragged, and he stepped backward away from me, unable to speak. He stumbled toward his cloak on the ground, and lifted it clumsily, nearly dropping the violin. Steadying himself, he draped the cloak over his shoulders and straightened, his back to me.

I dared to move—slightly, and then a little more, until I was standing.

"Oh, Madeleine," I heard, as silently as anything. "Oh, Madeleine, forgive me."

After his anger, always came his shame.

I gasped for want of air, terrified to go near him, and just as terrified to run away.

"Go," came the command.

I did not need to hear it again. I turned on my heel and ran up the stairs, stumbling on every other step, afraid to look back, needing more than anything to get out of the darkness and back into the light.

**A/N…Once again—lyrics above are to the melody of _Learn to be Lonely/No One would Listen_**


	19. The monster who loves

**Erik**

My hands shake. My hands shake my wrists, which shake my elbows, and my shoulders, and then my chest. Invariably, my whole body shakes, as I lean over the basin, sick. Sweat drips from my forehead, and my hair hangs loose over my eyes. My hair. Not the illusion. My own.

The mask, and my wig, lie forgotten on the organ as I release the sickness into the basin. How long until it is over? My legs feel too weak to support me, and I cannot be sure as to how much longer my arms will as well. I wretch one last time before falling to my knees, my hands holding my bare stomach, my eyes closed, my mouth open. What…have…I…_done?_

She was there—she came, and she toyed with me. I always feared, and anticipated, the day she would learn I was Christine's Angel. Different scenarios would play out in my mind, and I had been confident that I could manage any reaction she would give me and further orchestrate each situation to my own liking. But I was unprepared, totally unprepared….

"No," I groan, my hands coming to my forehead.

My thoughts won't be contained. My mind darts to a place years before when I stood over her in the same way, towering in my rage and menacing in my power, as she lay terrified and injured on the ground. As soon as my eyes fell to her mangled leg, then, I vowed to never hurt her, or any other woman, ever again. As lovingly I carried her from the opera house to the infirmary, my hood hiding my face, she _cried_, and I swore to kill any man who would dare lay a hand on a woman in the presiding ardour of a violent frame of mind. My own transgression was forgotten. Her tears, her pain, were all I saw, and I knew I could never bear to see that again. Any man who would do what I had done would pay.

My rage is not only dangerous to those at whom it directs itself, but to myself. When the Phantom has command of my mind, the vows Erik once ordained become useless and forgotten. And when Erik fights against him, I am dangerous. I have hurt her again. After years of keeping to my word and honour, I have broken my oath, and nearly killed her with my lasso. As soon as my legs can hold me, I will burn it. It has severed the lifelines of countless men, gleefully stealing their breath, and with the same madness it caressed the delicate skin of my love's throat. It will never kill again. _I_ will never kill again. The white mask gleams from atop the organ. _Look at what you've done to me!_ My tears mingle with my sweat.

_Or at what you've done to her_, comes the soothing voice I hate more than anything else in the world.

A moan of dissent escapes my lips. "Please.…"

I am flooded all over with the image of her struggling forme against my bloodlust. _The feel of her fighting body against your hand…her throat against your lips…her terrified breath against your face_.

My temples throb as heat rises to my neck. _You're disgusting_, I say to myself, fighting to push the thoughts and images away. But my insistence that they vanish only intensifies the sensations. Memories and the emotions that come with them contrast each other in a turbulent battle pitting love against lust. My heart sees Madame's horror and aches to soothe her, to erase every violent touch and word I gave her if only to secure her peace. My _flesh_, though, _burns_, and my blood simmers, still feeling her skin, still wanting to taste her while fear overwhelms her, _still_ wanting to strangle her, consume her, spend her terror to feed my desire, and—

"That is one oath I did not break!" I insist, forcing my mind to remember that I let her go, and that I am still honest before God because of it. I didn't take her. I did not…. The little boy she saved, the one who grew into a man, did not _r_—_ra_—my head pounds. The word will not even forme in my mind, not when it is so nearly relevant to myself. I can't even think it.

_You cannot deny that your flesh hungers for it_.

Inwardly I accuse, _It's perverse._

_It's pleasure!_

"It's evil!" I shout, and my voice echoes throughout the hollow cave-like lair. The Phantom stills for a moment, and my heart pounds. My hands tremble. He isn't gone, though. He has more to say.

_Evil…as though you yourself are not evil_.

"Never," I growl, flinging a hand toward the mask. "The _Phan_tom is evil!"

_As though you yourself are not the Phantom?_

I open my mouth, but my mouth is void of sound. I cannot tell myself that I am not the Phantom, because that is a lie. I am as much the Phantom as I am Erik, and I am as much the Phantom as I am the—

The Angel of Music.

I exhale as my thoughts spin toward a drastic conclusion. Madeleine knows of my deceit. She does not know why. She does not know I have done it because of _her_ as much as for Christine. But she knows, and therefore, the Angel's ivory wings have drawn back to reveal the black cloak of a Phantom in disguise. The Angel of Music is no longer a secret, and I am no longer an Angel, not after this day. It is again only Erik and the Phantom. I can never be the Angel again. I can never look at Christine's angelic face and listen to her angelic voice again while deceiving her. She nearly _worships_ me. She is too precious, too innocent, to deify a monster. What will I do to her, unknowing? What have I done already? Madeleine is right. I am going to hurt Christine, just as I hurt her.

_Oh, Christine_.

"I am a monster," I murmur through clenched teeth. My eyes feel heavy, and my body a deadweight, but my head is light. It has come to this, then. My entire life has been built toward this moment, this defining moment, where I discover who I truly am. I am a monster. A monster with a heart, but a monster nonetheless…or is it my heart that is the true monster? Erik and the Phantom were never two different people; they are the embodiments of my emotions with two different identities, created by my imagination so that I will never need to take full responsibility for my stupidity. Excuses. How I hate myself.

_You won't burn the lasso_.

My eyes fall to the red rope burns that taint the flesh of my palms. Red, and angry, for having tasted death and been denied.

I stand on my shaking legs and drag myself toward the fireplace, the rope in my hand. I will burn it, as it burned Madeleine, as it burned me. I am a monster, but monsters are entitled to redemption. Otherwise Hell would spill over and Heaven's gates would fail of disuse. The fire licks the atmosphere with greedy tongues, and its shadows follow in suit against the walls. It is perplexing, I notice, that both flame and shadow, two contrary forces, are so alike in such peculiarities.

The lasso is curled around my hand. Faint stains from blood long since shed have buried themselves into its rough, braided texture. The lives of dozens of men cry out silently from the bloodstains, but I am not sure what they're telling me. Whom all have I killed with it? Never an innocent man. The lasso has tightened only around the necks of dishonest men, like myself—the difference is that I owe the world _nothing_. Thieves, murderers, and the like. Rapists…which, as I have proven to myself today, I am not like. And adulterers. An adulterer is dishonest, and an adulterer is a thief, because he takes what is not his—and an adulterer is a rapist, because he takes it for his own selfish lusts.

That is how M Armande Giry met his end.

My eyes adjust to the brightness of the flame as I stare into it. I glower at the intense heat on my hand as I will myself to let the lasso drop. The first man I ever killed—Lombardi, my Gypsy master—was with this rope. As his large, dark forme struggled beneath my arms, I was overwhelmed and strengthened with the foreign sensation of _power_. My heart pounded as I heard, through the burlap sack, his desperate wheezes and dying grunts, ironic against the spinning carnival music and children's happy laughter outside of the tent, and the eyes of Compassion fixated on us with horror. In my hands was a human life, granted by _God_, and I had the power to end it without _God's_ consent. Fifty years Lombardi had been given to waste away his life in drunken, thieving debauchery, and in that last moment that he knew he would die, _I_ gave him his final chance to redeem himself before the Lord; _I_ made him choose, in his heart, between Heaven and Hell, and then _I_ ended him, trusting for his sake that he'd chosen wisely.

If he did not, then I only condemned a deserving man to his fate before God could send him there first.

But the lasso is not to blame for all of their deaths. No. The lasso had nothing to do with Gustave Daae, whom I killed for the sake of pity and grace—and it had nothing to do with the death of Madame Yvette, who was well-travelled in her tired journey to death anyway. I wanted my Madeleine back, and I wanted her to have Yvette's position as ballet mistress. Madame Yvette's demise was, indeed, a flourish of my own…though it would be selfish of me to take all of the credit. I merely left the window open in her flat so that the chill could claim her sickly disposition and do away with her on its own while I attended to other business. If I were to thoroughly purge myself of these murders, I would have to cut off my hands as well.

I will not do that. But the lasso is a beginning.

The heat is now searing against the flesh of my hand. _Drop it_. My palms are still raw from gripping it while it was around Madame Giry's neck—_Madeleine's_ neck. _Let it go._ The bristles dig into the sore, red skin as I squeeze it. _It will only hurt those you love, damn it!_ My teeth clench, and I gasp through them, "Leave me!" But the heat of the fire becomes too much for the tight skin around my knuckles, and my hand is not willing to acquiesce to my demands. I yank the lasso back from the fire and hurl it across the cavern, where it falls heavily into the curtains of my miniature Opera stage. The curtains cave in around it, and a pillar snaps. How bloody symbolic!

I stand in front of the mirror, and pull the drapes to the side. My eyes shut and I flinch as I catch the first glance at my face. I long ago learned the art of shaving without the aide of sight, and therefore I have not looked at my face without the mask in months. Forcing my eyes open, I behold the horrendous scarring. I _am_ a monster. I cannot escape it, just as my hand cannot escape my lasso, and my soul cannot escape the Phantom. My face cannot escape the Devil's mark. How does my right eye function, with the lid sunken down in such a way? How do I sing, with my lip curled back in a permanent snarl? My dark hair with its pigment-dysfunctional patch of blonde recedes far into my mangled scalp, reminding me of my need for another mask: my wig, one of many. The corrupted flesh lets me know, again, why my mother despised me, why my visage was exploited to the world's _sick_ appetite, why Lombardi is dead, why Madame saved me, and why she abandons me still.

_It's Erik who is evil_.

The drape falls into place over the mirror, and I walk away, away from anything that would remind me, and find myself at my organ, taking up my mask, and donning it once more.


	20. Absence

**Madame Giry**

The welts on my wrist and my neck from the lasso were red. Red, and angry.

The bruises on my throat were blue, where his mouth had brutalised me.

I tugged the sleeve down my wrist to conceal the marks on my flesh, and pulled the black scarf around my neck and tied it securely under my left ear. The rough velvet of the scarf stung against the raw burns and fresh bruises, but it would not do at all to parade them shamelessly in front of everyone else. I would take responsibility for them, full responsibility; he had reacted exactly as I'd known he would when I entered his lair.

When dealing with me or any aspect of his life he truly cared about, his emotions and his actions always led in a circle, and they did not fail this time. Uncertainty, anger, and shame—in that order, every time. I could handle the uncertainty easiest, I supposed. His anger, however, if intense enough, would lead to violence, and did often. The shame that came afterward was always terrible, because looking into his eyes when he understood what he'd done was heartbreaking. It always had been.

I had wept my last hours ago, and I would not let myself again. I had made a mistake that was tragic to both of us, and I could not blame him for it at all. I knew when I went searching for him that my curiosity would anger him, but once I discovered his secret I had not realised just how angry it would make _me_, and my anger had ignited the passion he'd already felt just being in my proximity. Echoing throughout his secret passage, I'd heard everything. His voice entranced me as he sang to Christine, but though I could not make out everything he said, his charade as the Angel of Music became clear by the end of their "lesson" or whichever term fit best, and I willed myself to keep my head and focus not on his voice but on what _I_ would say to _him_.

Coming had been my first mistake; staying had been my second. But letting him touch me—that had been the greatest mistake of all. From the very first second his hands brushed my skin I should have fled. But I did not flee. I did not escape the hypnotising touch and voice of the man who loved me, haunted me…who I could, and righteously so, never love in return. The song he'd written me years ago still lingered with me. After reading his letter then, I'd folded it and never read it again, so I could forget the lyrics. But he had never forgotten. The words I hadn't let myself long to hear, he sang to me at last. The vast curiosity, the years of denying any small _hint_ of reciprocated love for him overthrew me. I allowed myself—for only a moment—to desert my resolve, because it was only a moment, and a moment could hurt nothing.

I laughed bitterly. A moment, when one is in love, is a lifetime; therefore, though I stole only a moment of abandon for myself, I granted him a lifetime of longing, and of torment. The last time we had touched was perhaps the brief contact of his hands against my arms as he held Meg, but before that, just before I left the Opera to marry Armande. Why had I left in the first place? From the time I rescued Erik from the Gypsy carnival, I wanted him to be my son. My mourning for my brother had not ended when I saved Erik, and without realising it then, I desperately wanted him to take Henri's place. I wanted to raise him, give him the mother he never had, and watch him grow into a fine man whom I could be proud of.

But my Phantom did not trust me the way Henri had. And therefore, I could not care for and protect him the way I had Henri. At first, Erik's respect gave me authority, and I thought I had done something right. But it soon became clear that he did not respect me as a _mother_ at all. Through subtle language and small gifts, and the words his eyes held and the smile his lips wore as he would sing to me, I slowly came to understand his feelings. It was frightening, and my fear grew as his obsession flourished, for his obsession made him dangerous, and caused him to do hazardous things without care or even thought. Obsession, I knew, would cause anger—especially because I was determined not to be what he wanted me to be. Anger caused violence. Lombardi had been his first murder. When it had become obvious that he was killing again, I'd realised for the first time just how deeply his obsession rooted.

"_A salary?" I stormed into the attic and threw open the door, scattering sheets of music and dust. I briefly thought of him composing from the grave. "You can't possibly expect him to actually pay it!"_

_Erik glanced up at me from his table, smiling contentedly, as if he'd known this would happen. Today he wore a mask—black, and his glowing green eyes peered out through the eyeholes. "Can't I?"_

_Above the right side of his mask, his forehead was strangely clear and unblemished. I could barely distinguish the outline of a strip of prosthetic skin pressed over his disfigurement._

_I crossed my arms and straightened my spine; he merely smirked at my authoritative stance. So what! "I understand that your renovations and symphony pieces have done a great deal to spare this theatre. M LaBrant is appreciative of your efforts and the publicity you've brought. But 20,000 francs is ridiculous!"_

"_Surely you don't believe that. He's bloody wealthy, and bloody greedy, and bloody willing to do anything to keep me around for the Opera's sake."_

"_His greed, then, will deny you your salary!"_

_He stared at his fingers as if they were of great interest. "His greed is not for money but for fame; and in return for his money, I can give him just that. I am an extremely busy and productive ghost, and I am in need of compensation." He beamed genuinely at me, and I kept back a smile of my own so he would not recognise my amusement. "I see there is a grin beneath your glare."_

_I pursed my lips. "Did you hope for a laugh, Monsieur?"_

_His shoulders lifted in a shrug, but his gaze remained intense, and his smile playful. "I'd hoped." He sighed, and turned his head, feigning indifference. "Since you appear to know so much about my affairs with the administration, Madame, I'll ask you how our agreeable manager took my request."_

"_He merely laughed at it," I informed him condescendingly, gladdened that my forme standing was taller than his while he sat. "He won't comply with such an extreme demand. If only he knew that his Phantom was nothing more than an impatient seventeen-year-old trickster!"_

_Erik stood, and without at first realising it, I stepped backward. His eyes sparkled in humour. He was already three fourths of a foot taller than me—and with his height came both maturity and arrogance. "I am not as young as you think, Mademoiselle."_

_Mademoiselle! "Unless you lied to me about your age when you first came here, you are seventeen, and yes, seventeen is very young." I met his eyes. "And you will mind my wishes, Erik."_

"_Forgive me, _Madame_," he amended. He turned toward a chest of clothing. "But you see, age has nothing to do with youth…" his hands gracefully retrieved a strip of rope, tied into a lasso… "or wisdom…" and he stroked up its length, tightening the noose as he went… "or power."_

_Silence governed. My heart drummed as a possible meaning to his cryptic actions entered my mind. "What is that thing?"_

_Erik lifted the rope. "Haven't you seen it before?"_

_My mind flew backward, and I saw his dirty forme over the dirtier Gypsy, his furious, frightened eyes as they watched me through two holes in a burlap sack. The deadly grip of his hands as they held the rope that bound his cage in place around the Gypsy's neck. But of course that wasn't—_

"_It has served its purpose in giving me what I wanted before," he continued, his voice deep and controlled. "I could easily employ it again, whichever way it would best suit my needs."_

_It was. He'd kept it? "You wouldn't threaten the manager's life," I said, half-demanding it. He had killed no one since Lombardi—I had made him promise not to ever kill again when I rescued him._

_He chuckled. "There are other lives to threaten, but I would not disregard his."_

"_You like him too much."_

"_Of course I like him. He's entirely agreeable! But even the most agreeable of men need threatening…from time to time."_

"_You are all talk, child," I forced, standing a bit taller. "It is a good thing for the world that your promises are not as empty as your threats."_

_A dark look passed over his eyes, and it stunned me. "Promises."_

_I nodded, swallowing. "You promised me, Erik, years ago, that you would never kill another human being again. You promised me."_

_He twisted the rope around his hands. "I remember."_

_A pause. _

"_You have…kept your promise, then," I said, my voice low._

_His eyes fell to the rope in his hands, and he shifted from his right foot to his left. I could visibly see him tense, and then harden; suddenly, I could hear his breathing, and his shadow seemed to fill the room._

_My own breath caught in my throat, and I faltered. "No," I stated. "No, you wouldn't…you haven't…oh Erik, tell me you haven't!"_

_My silence, my inability to even say the word, enticed him. "Haven't what, Madame? Haven't ended another guilty worthless life? Haven't felt the pulse of a dying man's heart beneath my fingers?"_

_I shook my head, unwilling to believe what I was hearing. "Erik," I started, my hands shaking, forcing myself to continue. "You cannot do this. You cannot take justice into your own—"_

"_I can," he growled softly. "And I have. Did you really think the disappearance of the construction team was only a coincidence? Surely lurking in your mind somewhere was an explanation that you didn't dare entertain?"_

_My jaw was paralysed._

"_Rest assured, each man on the team was hiding some filthy past, some unforgivable secret—I made sure of it before employing them. They were guilty men who had the talent to do as I asked. But there is more. Do you remember Elliot, your moustache'd colleague who nearly raped you in the dormitories?"_

_My mind flashed to the dark haired Italian. Three years ago. He had been quite in love with me, and one night in the dorms he'd tried to kiss me. Though I was indeed interested, I had been too firmly invested in my training to let him, not wanting a distraction, and I'd yelled at him a bit. The next morning, he committed suicide—and I blamed myself._

_Erik's revealing gaze brought me from my thoughts, and my heart crashed. I brought my hand to my mouth and sucked in the air, shaking my head, as I finally realised that it hadn't been a suicide at all._

_In one swift stride he was before me, and he backed me into a wall. I gasped and turned my face, unsure what to do or think, as he held the rope before my eyes. "Touch it," he demanded. "Hold it. Death scares you so much?"_

"_Stop it!" I shouted, and I shoved him; we both stared at my hands as if neither of us recognised them. My heart still raced, but I forced my breathing into submission and tried to collect myself. "Please," I said. "Please…I don't want to look at you and…and see…"_

_His eyes clouded, and his head dropped a bit. He tucked the rope back into the chest gently, his entire posture drenched in his sudden shame. "A murderer." His back was to me—his forme was slender and his shoulders were broadening, but the defeated tone of his voice reminded me that he was still a boy. "I'm sorry, Madame." He closed the chest, and turned around unsurely to face me. "But I promise you—" A tense pause. "I've only ever used the lasso to purge the waste of this world that ceased to be human long ago."_

_I listened to him, desperately wanting to excuse him, but my mind still reeled—my Erik was, indeed, a murderer. A murderer of injustice, he'd reasoned, but what was his understanding of injustice? Elliot had not tried to rape me, but he killed him. Whom else had he killed, mistaking their innocence for guilt?_

_In my incredulity, I grew angry—and his hurt disposition ensured that anything I now said would remain with him. "I cannot believe you would do this. I cannot accept that you have become just like the men I rescued you from." He flinched, and dropped into his chair, taking my reprimand. "If you respect me at all, you will not break your promise again. You will never use your lasso to end another human life; you are too young to understand the power you wield, and far too ignorant to determine a grievance and deal a proper sentence!"_

_At the word "ignorant" his fists began to clench, and though I knew I had undermined his experience with injustice, I would not falter under his rage again. I swiftly turned and left the attic, slamming the door shut behind me, and as I hurried down the stairs, I heard a powerful crash from within the room._

Because of me, he didn't kill for years. And also because of me, he killed again years later.

I looked over my reflection in the mirror. The scarf did not look out of place, but of course it was out of character. Part of my image as both feminine and powerful demanded that I not follow current fleeting fashions, but dress simply, strictly, and elegantly. Exposing my neck revealed both grace and confidence. Covering it…I had many guesses at what that might reveal. But none of my students would question me about it; I would leave their uncertainty to their gossip.

My thoughts returned to Armande, whom I once so naïvely thought could save me. When I met him, I was confused. It had taken me years to finally understand that I could never have the Phantom of the Opera as my child—which had given _him_ years to strengthen his hold over my torment and make me battle with my own resistance. When I at last came to this understanding, I was afraid. Afraid to remain with a soul so violent and beautiful haunting my every step, who injured my leg and ruined my dreams of dancing, who nurtured me and sang me back into health and did everything he could to revive my talent and restore my will to go on. Afraid to continue my relationship with the murderer I was hopeless to want as blameless, the boy I was desperate to want as my son, the man I was terrified to want as….

My mind would not complete the sentence, and again my thoughts went back to Armande—because Armande was safety. Sweet Armande, who loved me more than anyone else in the world but the Phantom. He saw my fear and he saw my pain, and he wanted to take me from it; and fleetingly, I believed he could. I did love him, too, which was a shock to myself, for I didn't believe in love. I loved him because I needed him and because he brought me what appeared to be security and happiness, but it hardly went deeper than that, and he recognised it. It drove him to be unfaithful, but it was because he wanted _me _and couldn't have me, not all of me. And his adultery led to his death.

A lump began to forme in my throat. Of course I still missed Armande, but it was Erik, whom I cared for in such a complicated but genuine way, that I now mourned for. It was knowing that Erik had ended Armande's life in his jealousy and twisted sense of justice, and that in doing so he had sealed his fate, that made me want to weep now. It was impossible, after that, for me to accept his love, but I was the only one of the two of us who could understand that.

"I left the Opera when I realised you could never be my son," I said aloud, "and because I was in danger of loving a fallen Angel." I straightened again before my reflection, not liking the look of defeat and finality that came with my claim. "But that was years ago," I hissed at the mirror, entirely confident that he was not in my room, could not see me, could not hear me. What I was about to say was the absolute truth, but I couldn't bear for him to hear it. "And now I know that I could not love the man who murdered my husband and almost killed me as well."

…

**Christine**

The door was locked. I was sitting on the floor. It was an hour before suppertime. Then where was my Angel?

I took a deep breath, a little frightened. This was the third day he had not come. Had I done something wrong? Maybe he really _was_ angry with me for almost giving away our secret. But I hadn't told Madame Giry at all. Why, I'd even lied to her and told her I'd only _dreamt_ about the Angel of Music.

"_Angel of Music, are you listening?_

"_Why aren't you here with me?_"

But he did not answer.

For two years he had been tutoring me, and I learned to feel his presence...not only here in my dressing room, but in the chapel, and the dorms, and in the ballet rehearsal chambers. Most often he was silent, but on rare and delightful occasions, I would hear him softly sing my name amidst the noise, in a tone only I could recognise. Even without his voice, though, I could always tell if he was watching me. Sometimes I could even smell him; he always smelt of candle-smoke and roses.

Tonight, though, he wasn't with me, and hadn't been the two nights before it. This had never happened before!

"_Here in the silence I listen_

"_Searching for even a hint_

"_Know that my certainty's thinning_

"_And my patience spent!_"

I crossed my arms, pouting, sure that if he was hiding from me he couldn't resist a playful banter such as the one I offered, one that was very similar in lyrical nature to reprimands he'd given me.

Silence.

I waited, unfolding my arms and circling them around my legs. I sang it well, I was sure. I had even incorporated the vibrato he'd been recently instructing me to use. He'd said that for a nine-year-old girl, trained vibrato was a "vastly premature and equally astounding tool that intensifies ear-pleasing shimmer"—I wasn't entirely sure what that meant, but surely it was a good thing, for there had been a smile in his voice instead of a scowl. Well, my vibrato was far from trained, but the tremolo effect it had on my young strains gave me a very mature and adult-sounding voice, I thought!

"Angel, where are you?" I exclaimed, because I didn't have the patience to practise my lyrics or the confidence to produce a beautiful sound. "You've never left me before," I accused, and bit my tongue. I certainly didn't want to sound angry! "I'm frightened. What ever have I done to make you not want to see me?"

I stood when there was no response, and circled the dressing room, my eyes on the ceiling. Surely it would do me no good to look _down_ for an Angel! "Master?" I called, my fright growing with each passing second. Yesterday and the day before, I figured he was terribly busy, or he wanted me to rest. But this was the third day, and it had already been twenty minutes! That left only forty for my lesson…if there was going to be a lesson.

But more time passed. I didn't know whether I was supposed to be sad, scared, or angry, but regardless of what I was _supposed_ to be, I was scared. _The Angel has left me_, I was suddenly beginning to realise. I couldn't sing without him! In fact, I didn't even know _what_ to do without him. He was my whole world! He was all, and everything…he was my guardian, he was my friend, he was my teacher, my master…he was like my father. _Oh, Father…what have I done?_

Searching the room desperately for a hiding place for my invisible Angel, I wanted to cry. For the first time in two years, I missed Papa terribly. It was nearly suppertime. I knew what to do! I would go to the chapel. Through the tears that stood in my eyes, I found my dresser, and from the top shelf I grabbed a soap-white candle. Hiding it in my skirt, I fled to the door, unlocked it, and opened it…and ran straight into Madame Giry.

"Oh, Madame, I'm so, so sorry!" I stammered, and burst into tears.

Madame's arms came around me, and I just cried into her shoulder. She was so very strict sometimes, I wasn't sure what to do! "Hush, child. Hush, Christine."

I hiccupped, nodding, and sniffed loudly, trying to stop my tears.

She knelt before me, and through blurry eyes I could see that she looked afraid, too. "Christine…Christine, what has happened? Has someone hurt you?"

I shook my head. "No," I said. But I couldn't think of anything else to say.

She took my face in her cold, slender hands. "Why are you crying? Are you sure no one hurt you?" Her eyes were very hard, and secretive. "I want the truth from you, Miss Daae, and I won't accept anything else."

I shook my head, my jaw moving between her palms. "No one hurt me, I promise." Why did she stare at me so? All I wanted was to get to the chapel and light my candle. "Sometimes it's entirely acceptable to be sad."

Her brow furrowed, and she shook her head. "You are too young to understand what that means, child. Mirroring my words is only an excuse. There _is_ something you aren't telling me."

"I miss Father," I said, tears falling again, and her hands went from my cheeks to my shoulders tenderly.

"You told me only days ago that when you missed your father, all you had to do was think about the Angel of Music." My heart beat faster, and I knew she was going to ask me all sorts of questions again! "Why don't you think of him now?"

I opened my mouth, thinking of all sorts of answers, but not one came.

Her gaze implored me. "What has changed, Christine?"

I bit down on my lip. "The Angel of Music doesn't bring me comfort anymore."

Her eyes flitted into the dressing room, and back to me. "Did—does thinking of the Angel scare you?"

I shook my head. "Never."

She sighed. "Do you believe he is angry with you?"

I shook my head indignantly. "I thought you didn't believe in the Angel of Music," I pointed out, sniffling. Madame Giry stood, and for the first time I could ever remember, she didn't say a word. There was so much silence, in fact, that I couldn't stand it! "Please, Madame, I am missing my father terribly…can I go to the chapel before dinner?"

She nodded curtly, and I took my chance; the candle still rolled up in my skirt, I scurried down the hallway.


	21. The third road

**Madame Giry**

It made no sense. Christine was terribly upset, the most upset I had seen her in a long time. She had been in her dressing room, undoubtedly with Erik, receiving a lesson as she had certainly every night since she was _given_ the room. Seeing her tears had filled me with dread and anger. Clearly he had relinquished his temper on her to put her in such a state and send her weeping from the room.

Or perhaps, not so clearly, as she seemed sincere in assuring me that the Angel was not angry and did not scare her. Then what could have caused her to cry in such a way? What else could have happened…unless his influence had turned her into as persuasive a deceiver as he?

The bastard.

As soon as Christine had left my sight, I entered the dressing room and closed the door. The room was silent and still. I didn't feel him. "Erik?" I whispered, suddenly struck that I was so bold as to look for him this soon after our…encounter.

Nothing.

"Erik, I understand that you are still angry with me," I chanced at the silence, "but I will not tolerate such blatant disregard of my presence."

But he wasn't there. Either he had left just after Christine, or he had not been there at all. My brow furrowed. That would explain it; in fact, that explained it surprisingly well. He had not shown up for their lesson, and that was what put Christine in such a dishevelled state. The only questions left were why he hadn't appeared to her in the first place…and where he was now.

I removed myself from the dressing room briskly, my heart racing suddenly, realising that I could very well have put myself into more danger. I didn't want to _find_ him. My concern for Christine had momentarily replaced my fear, and just now I understood what I had almost done. I shut the door and rushed down the hallway, light on my feet, mentally controlling my respiration.

Upon entering my flat, my fingers went to my heart and I closed my eyes, leaning against the door. I was safe. My heartbeats reverberated against the weight of my hand, and I willed them to still; I was back in my room, where everything was mine, and I was not invading upon his territory or evoking his presence again.

Opening my eyes, though, did nothing to calm my heart. Upon my vanity was a white envelope. Upon the ivory of the envelope was a crimson seal. A skull.

I was not without him, not even in my own room.

Cautiously I approached the vanity, drawn by the letter, enticed by my curiosity, which outweighed my reserve. I straightened. _He will not hurt me again_, I assured myself. I remembered how terribly stricken he had been years ago, after laying eyes on the damage he'd done to my leg, and I could only imagine that the same sorrow had overcome him this time. It was a letter of apology, and rightfully so. Though I was to blame for the most recent episode, he could not be excused.

I broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

_Oh, Madeleine._

_I do not know what to say to you. You, to whom I owe my very life. I haven't ever written a letter of this nature and undoubtedly I never will again. I have loved you since I first laid eyes on you—for the first time in my unwanted existence, returning my gaze was not a glare, a leer, an outward expression of inward disgust or horror or contempt. You have shown me the compassion that no force beneath Heaven is entitled to give, and that no force within Heaven has ever given regardless. But again and again I have driven you away from me through my infernal rage and endless greed. You have always believed there is redemption for me somewhere; it is time, however, for you to stop entertaining such fantasies. I was born a monster, and I will be so forever. My love for you has remained the only humanity my being was ever graced with. Therefore, part of me will continue to worship you from afar, to cling to the one awareness that keeps me from spiralling into insanity. You are not indebted to me, and you owe me nothing. The least I can do for you then, Madame, is give you back your freedom._

I put down the letter, clutching my heart. I did not want to read anymore of it. Every emotion I'd ever known was at work, and before I ventured any further into his soul I needed to understand what he was trying to tell me. The words were slightly reminiscent of the fond letters he had written me years before, but never with such honest humility; gone were the arrogantly-seasoned undercurrents, the subtle ironies and blunt demands. Here, as I had never seen him do so before, he had written his heart. I'd always known how much my patience and care meant to him, but before now, not ever because he _told_ me.

I hadn't realised to what extent his sorrow plagued him. If he were in his usual state of mind, he would despise himself over such a confession.

My eyes pooling, I lifted the letter again, softly caressing the etchings…knowing that his hand had made them.

_You should be greatly assured to know that I will no longer masquerade as the Angel of Music. Though at first I felt I could save her from the same darkness that has engulfed my life, I cannot hide the Demon in the guise of an Angel, especially not for Christine—she is perfect, you see, and I refuse to taint her. Aside from that, I have no reason to any longer. It is time that you know I did it for you. From the moment I learned you would bring an orphan to my theatre, I swore to make her mine, to mould her and shape her until I created something so miraculous, you would be blind not to see it. Christine would be my means of winning you back. But I have made a decision, Madame, a vow, and this vow I will not break._

Understanding flooded me at his revelation, and I was struck again at how much I truly dictated his thoughts and intentions. _Erik, you fool_, I thought, but his last sentence stirred me to continue reading.

_These are, in fact, the last words that will ever be penned by the part of me that is Erik. It has taken me years to finally understand that it is not the Phantom at all who harnesses my malevolence. Love and hate go hand-in-hand; hatred and evil are kin. Love will make a man mad, lead him to hate, and ghosts can't love; therefore, only man is capable of true evil. Though I will never be rid of Erik entirely, for your sake I am willing to relinquish that most dangerous half of my soul and resume the role I was born to play. He will always love you. But he is no longer in control of my thoughts or deeds, and therefore, you are safe, as is Christine. Know, then, my beloved, that I am always watching you, and I will always protect you…and in a banished region of my soul, I will always know the reason._

_Madeleine, I love you. And that is why._

_O.G._

I dropped the letter, and it fluttered gracefully.

Then it had happened. It had finally happened.

I was free.

And for my freedom, Erik had surrendered his own.

My head began to throb. I sank onto my mattress, my surroundings blurring into one mass of shadow and dull colour. The Phantom had done it then. After all these years, after I had put my world into rescuing him from himself, he had given up. It had been the biggest sacrifice of my life, and years ago, when I realised I could not get what I wanted, I tried to take my life back. I left the Opera with Armande. But I returned to the Ghost who killed my husband, because the life I thought I'd taken back was still devoted to him, and I could not bear to see him give up.

And now, to spare me once and for all, he'd condemned himself to an eternity of captivity, so my life could be my own at last.

"What are you doing?" That question, and variations of it, I had asked aloud countless times, whether he could hear me or not. My hands gripped the sheets below me. "What have you done?" If that truly was his decision, then everything I'd lived for up until now had been in vain. He would purge Erik from his soul, purge all love, feeling, hope. He was the only man in the world who could do it, and he would. And it will all have been a waste.

"Think, Madeleine," I heard myself say, and I obeyed. I realised now that there had always been two roads, both leading to entirely different conclusions. The first was what was happening at this moment—I could refuse his love, and therefore, he would abandon his humanity, reject his redemption, and remain fully the Phantom. The second road was this: I could accept his love and love him in return, and he would abandon the Phantom and become wholly Erik.

I had not known it in the beginning, but there was indeed no way for me to refuse his love and save him at the same time.

The second road I could not take—there was no question about it. I could never love him the way he loved me. Even if I pretended to, which I could not, it would mean sacrificing my life again, and to no avail; he would see right through me, and the Phantom would never really be gone. My head felt as if it would split. That meant there was no other way than the way he had chosen. His destiny was written. There was no turning back; I had lost him forever, and had given up my life in doing so.

…_You are safe, as is Christine._

Unless….

I felt my eyes dilate as a sudden thought swept over my mind. Was it as ridiculous as it seemed?

"_No_," I said aloud. It would put Christine in danger.

A cluster of thoughts and memories surfaced—the violin, the dressing room, Christine's sudden happiness, and the obvious love he retained for the little girl. The Angel of Music was everything to Christine, and the Angel of Music was Erik. Never in the sixteen years I'd known him had he loved anyone other than me. There was not a soul in the world he even spoke well of, much less cared for. But he was afraid of hurting Christine. She meant a great deal more to him than he wanted to reveal…and she revered him as if he were her father, that much I knew.

_Oh, Christine_, I thought. _You are the third road_.

I had to know for sure. If she loved him as much as I thought she did, and if he loved her as well, his destiny was not sealed after all. She could provide him another way out of the fate he'd chosen for himself. _Oh, God_, I prayed, _let this be Your will…show me. Give me a sign, that this is Your will, and I will do everything I possibly can to ensure that it happens_.

As my feet took me out of my flat and toward the chapel, the entire thing fell into place. For him to rid himself of the Phantom, he needed love—requited and _true_, _unconditional_, _love_, the love of another human being. I could not give it to him the way he needed it from me, but Christine could the way he needed it from her, and Christine could bring Erik back; Christine could save him.

The dark corridor was illuminated by the passage into the chapel.

If he would continue to be Christine's Angel, she would continue to love him, and she would have a father, and he would have a daughter. It was as simple as that. Erik would find his redeeming love in Christine's unbiased need for him. But he could not abandon her, or everything would fail. As much as I had been against the idea in the start, his guise as the Angel of Music was what would, in the end, save him.

I was sure of it.

I stopped at the entrance to the chapel steps, listening.

Christine's voice drifted to me. "I've tried everything, Father. Have I done something to disappoint you? Is that why you took the Angel from me?"

_Say you love him_, I urged soundlessly. _Say you love him and that will be my sign_.

"When you left me, I thought the world might as well end! You were everything to me!" Several sobs, and then a heavy breath, and a sniffle. "But you came back, because you gave me the Angel. I _miss_ you." Her voice broke. "I _love_ you."

_Say you love Erik_.

"I know I still love you, because I love my _Angel_." My heart rose, and so did her voice. "I can't lose him too. He's my entire world, now that you're no longer here. Please, give him back to me! I _can't_ lose him like I lost _you!_"

I wanted to laugh, but even in my happiness my face contorted with sobs that I desperately pushed back into my chest. I had cried too much. I covered my heart with my left hand and gripped the wall with my right, steadying myself, when without warning I heard his voice from somewhere beside me.

"That is what I have done."

I whipped around, and seeing him wrapped in shadows in the dark corner was such a fright that I opened my mouth. But he raised a finger to his lips, and then delicately pointed into the chapel.

"I don't want her to know we are here."

I was too stunned to move, but I forced a nod. He watched me, and slowly I began to regain control of my limbs. I moved toward him.

Abruptly he held up a hand, and I halted. "Don't come any closer," he whispered. "Please." He was broken.

I obeyed, but as much as I wanted to, I could not take my eyes from his gaze. "Erik—"

Again he shook his head, and I closed my mouth, unsure what I could do. "And please…don't call me by that name."

Inside, I reeled, heartbroken at both his words and the sound of his voice—resigned to defeat, and slowly accepting indifference. "Monsieur," I forced out, willing to obey, at least for now, until things began to fall into place. I held up my hands and let my posture slouch, which was so unlike me that I could tell he was taken aback, though he pretended not to care. I allowed my arms to hang loosely at my sides in a helpless gesture. "_Listen_ to her."

His glowing green eyes probed me. "I have been listening. I've waited here for hours, knowing she would come to mourn me." He looked past me into the chapel, where Christine's voice could still be heard. "I did that to her, and nothing I can do will undo it." He let a low, strained sigh escape his lips. "And I will allow myself one last time to mourn her as well."

"Oh, Erik, you don't have to do this," I began, and he stiffened instantly, but said nothing—we both knew it would be the last time I used his name. "I was wrong before. You would hurt her far worse by disappearing from her life now than by remaining."

"I have no business in her life," he said quietly.

I matched his tone. "You should have thought of that before entering her life in the first place. Now, you must finish what you started."

He didn't move, but he took my reprimand, however emotionlessly.

"Don't you see?" I whispered, daring to take a small step toward him. "You gave her back her father. You gave her back her _life_." He closed his eyes; I only hoped his ears remained open. "If you leave her now, you will take her will to live _with_ you. Don't do to her what I did to you."

His eyes snapped open, and he watched me intently.

"I could never ask your forgiveness, Monsieur," I continued. "I don't deserve your forgiveness, and neither do you deserve my apology. I know I have hurt you, and you know you have hurt me; I am willing to let this settlement remain as it is forever. There could never be anything but pain for us, regardless of what we say to each other. I care for you, and I care for Christine, far too much for the same thing to happen to the two of you." I beseeched him with my gaze. "You did not entre her life for my sake alone. You didn't want Christine to fall into the same darkness as you. By stealing away her one hope, you are _condemning_ her to it."

His mouth opened in a deep breath, and he moved his head. "I cannot let myself love her enough to do something that will hurt her…and will destroy me."

"Then don't let it hurt her," I encouraged. "You put far too little faith in your ability to do good. You would destroy yourself by hurting her. You would destroy yourself by leaving her now."

The Phantom straightened, and his cloak swished around his forme. He pursed his lips and pleaded me with his eyes, but I remained firm, and I could see as the truth registered into him finally. It was a strange sensation. Those eyes that surveyed my every move, that lusted for the power to control life and death and fully drank in the divine and unreachable beauty only music could offer, were slowly, visibly, understanding my claim, and accepting it.

In that moment, I felt more powerful than anything else in the world.

He turned from me and began walking down the corridor, but at the last moment turned back, and I saw that he had hardened. "Madame Giry—I will continue to be the Angel of Music, but it will not be for Christine's sake, nor for yours; have patience, and you will see just what the Opera Ghost has in store for her." He smirked arrogantly. "She will be the most brilliant and shining star this theatre has ever seen."

I nodded, playing his game, not allowing the relief that flooded my system to show through me—then he would catch onto my own subtle manipulation. "We shall see."

He turned, and in the shadows all I saw was the faint light reflecting from his well-oiled hair. Without regard to the appeals I had made, the recommencement of the Angel of Music had suddenly become his idea and his intention; not my own. The game had begun.

"One moment, though, Monsieur le Fantôme," I intoned, and he paused, without turning to me. The game had begun, indeed, and I would resume my rightful place. "If you plan to carry on with your charade and transform the little soprano into a miracle of your own making, I have one request."

He waited silently.

"You will show me your domain and your hidden passageways. You will impart to me the secrets this Opera has to share, and you will do so without complaint." I took a few steps toward him, painfully aware that it still hurt him to even look at me, hear my voice. "When you are ready," I ventured, "you will reveal these things to me, and in return I will do all that I can to help you."

For a moment he was quiet. And then, without turning around, he murmured, "Your help will not go unappreciated, Madame." The shadows overwhelmed him, and his presence faded from the hallway.

I bored holes in the darkness with my eyes, breathing deep with the realisation of everything that had occurred in the past few moments. God had given me His blessing, I believed, and Christine had been given back her Angel…and the Phantom had been given another chance at salvation.

The scandals and mysteries of the Opera Populaire were once again in order, and everything was right. I had to believe it.


	22. Possessed

**Christine**

I stood, watching as the candle burnt. It spewed oily smoke, and the wax had all but melted. I swiped at my face, feeling the cold tears on my cheeks, and turned to the stairway. I would let the candle burn for as long as it could.

I hadn't been so distraught since before my Angel first came. Every time I missed Father, all I had to do was talk to the Angel, and I would not need to cry. If ever I did start to cry, he wouldn't let me, and though I didn't understand it those times, I did now: the Angel was protecting me.

I suppose I had forgotten just how much crying hurt.

On my way out of the chapel, I ran once again straight into Madame Giry. "Forgive me," I murmured. "I'll be right to supper."

"Christine," she said softly and I turned to her. She smiled down at me, and I was surprised. It was the best smile she'd ever given me—even her eyes seemed to smile. "Christine, you needn't cry."

Her thumbs wiped away the remaining tears, and I furrowed my brow. "You couldn't understand, Madame."

She lowered herself to my level and nodded at me. "I do understand, child."

I pursed my lips quizzically.

"Listen to me, Christine." Madame Giry put her hands on my shoulders, and I realised just how often we'd been in this position over the past few days. Each time, she had tried to force me to give away my secret Angel. But I would be prepared this time. "Listen to me. Your secret is safe with me, and your Angel will return."

My mouth dropped, and I gasped. I wasn't prepared at all! Surely she was trying to trick me…but how would _she_ know he had left? "What did you say?"

"You can trust me, Christine," she assured, and that soft gaze that I'd never seen before both warmed me and shocked me. "I am a friend of the Angel of Music, and I would never give your secret away. I promise you that he has returned, and you needn't cry any longer."

My mouth was still wide-open. Dare I believe her? Why ever would she lie to me? Of course I could believe her! She knew the Angel, and he'd told me so himself! "The Angel told me he watched over you!"

Madame's mouth turned up at the corners. "Yes…he always has."

"Well why did you pretend you didn't believe in him?"

"He wanted to wait until the time was right," she said quickly, but I wasn't sure what that meant. "Now, Christine, if you return to the chapel, I can assure you that he will be in there waiting."

I paused for only a second before spinning on my heel and bursting back into the chapel. "Angel!"

My voice echoed throughout the stone room, but he did not respond. I would try a different approach.

"_Have you returned to me, my Angel?_

"_Give me a sign; show me!_"

My skin tingled—I had never sung in this room, but the echoes that trailed my voice were absolutely delightful! A moment of silence, and I noticed my arms were raised. I slowly let them fall to my sides, my shoulders heaving as my heart raced. Surely he was there…Madame Giry had said he was!

I should have known not to doubt, because the strong door into the chapel closed on its own, and then _his_ voice came, after three days of unbearable silence, comforting and tender like only an Angel could be:

"_Angel with faith so strong, enduring_

"_Long though I've been silent_."

Joy returned to me, and slight frustration; tears of two kinds fell from my eyes.

"_Why did you keep me in waiting?_

"_Was my faith tested all through?_"

He responded:

"_Wise you've become to have sensed this_

"_And your faith proves true_."

I shivered at the praise, and continued our song.

"_Angel of Music, how I've missed you!_

"_I'm alone no longer!_

"_Never again I'll doubt your promise_

"_You'll be with me always!_"

As my voice echoed in the still room, the Angel added his own, in new, low _minor_ tones that froze me in the grand aural atmosphere of the chapel:

"_I am your Angel of Music…_

"_Sing to me, Angel of Music…_"

Without realising it, my voice lifted in wordless melody, in a tune I had never sung or even heard. Joy and apprehension coursed through my veins as my voice carried me higher and higher, scaling and descending, and scaling again. The air around me swirled with the notes, resounding even as I changed keys. I couldn't stop, even if I wanted to. _This is what it is like to be hypnotised_, I thought as the music I was making rang in my ears.

"Sing for me," came his command, softly at first, and then louder. "Sing, Christine!"

His voice was different! It was almost…no, not angry, not angry at all, but not happy…oh, I couldn't even think of the word! Greedy? No. I continued to sing, and somewhere within the ocean of sound I heard a note that could not possibly have come from me. I couldn't sing so high, I was sure!

I held the note as long as I could, and as soon as I had released it fully, the tone still resonated around me. I was nearly speechless. "Oh, Angel," I breathed. "I've never done that before."

His voice bounced off of the walls. "The acoustics of your dressing room are not as intense nor as definite as they are here," he answered huskily. "Stone walls, hollow caverns, will trick the ear into smoothing the rough edges of your voice, take hold of the pure note in your strain and refine it as it bathes in it own echoes. What you heard in this room was deceptive purity, Christine, and your confidence grew immeasurably, which resulted in a widening of your range. Beginning tomorrow, we will practice in here during early daylight in addition to our evening lessons in your dressing room. I want you to cling to the confidence these acoustics will lend and remember it throughout your entire day; come evening, I will train you to hold onto that confidence even when your voice does not ring as purely in your ear. Perfection is only an illusion, Christine; it will be your duty, as we continue, to grasp that illusion and mimic it every time you sing." A second of silence, and the warm and strict tones of his voice settled about the room. "And when you have done so, I will have nothing left to teach you."

I'm not sure when it happened, but I had fallen to my knees as he spoke, letting his commands in his angelic baritone penetrate both my ears and my mind. I nodded slowly, reverently. "I understand, Master." A pause. "But I should hope that day never comes."

This time the pause came from him. "Why would you hope such a thing?"

I gazed sadly at the picture of my father that hung beneath the candle. "Because when you have nothing left to teach me, you will leave."

Silence once again stilled in the warm room, and suddenly, his voice boomed throughout: "I will NEVER leave you, Christine!"

I fell backward onto my palms as the candles others had left lit blew out. My heart stopped, and my mouth dropped, and my hands shook as his words threw themselves at me from every wall. I was stunned: his promise suggested comfort, and it only seemed right that I should be comforted by it…but he sounded so angry! How had I made him so angry?

As the sounds sank into the floor, I heard only my own breath as I cowered, my eyes roaming the ceiling.

Then his voice returned, and it was much gentler, much more loving, but for some reason it did nothing to still my heart. "I will always be with you. Never forget that."

I shook my head, and forced out, "I won't ever forget again." After a moment of silence, I clumsily got to my feet, and brushed the curls out of my eyes. He sounded so angry, but it wasn't only the anger that frightened me—it was that same sound in his voice that I couldn't put a word to earlier, that caused the hairs on my arms to suddenly stand on end.

Possessive.

I found the word, then.


	23. The Phantom and his Opera

**The Phantom**

I dismiss Christine. Her brown eyes remain wide as she nods and attempts a smile before disappearing from the chapel.

Her fright would have once shamed me. But changes are necessary; I can no longer be her father, because a father is required to love. For months I have—stupidly—allowed myself to love the little girl purely, but I cannot afford to any longer. I will be her teacher now, and nothing else.

From my vantage point I can see Madame Giry in the shadows, an unreadable expression across her features. Christine passes her unknowingly, and after a moment Madame follows.

The dull pain in my gut is lessened as I centre my thoughts on my little soprano. Though time faithfully continues its course, my life is deviating from the road it has followed until now. Madame is no longer waiting at the end of my path. Instead, she will follow behind me and I will not look back at her. I will not be weak, as was Lot's wife, as she cast a glance over her shoulder for one last look at Sodom.

On this road a Phantom walks. On this road, Christine is waiting for me.

I wrap the violin into my cloak and pull myself back into the narrow walkway that will lead me away from the chapel. I can navigate the unheeded labyrinth within the opera house effortlessly. The renovations I instructed M LaBrant to employ before his untimely passing have served me well. The Opera Populaire is far smaller on the inside than it appears on the out, and that is due to the many hidden passages which circulate the entirety of the building and weave into every hall and every room. It is a wonder that only myself and Madame know of their existence.

Of course, it is also a wonder that my theatre still survives after the measures I took nearly two decades before to ensure my own complete confidentiality and authority in the happenings of the Opera.

_LaBrant shuffles through each telegram, cursing loudly. I am slightly irritated. Until this day, he has always been so agreeable. "I am telling you, I had nothing to do with this at all. This Opera is haunted. Blame the Ghost that lives here."_

_The attorney sighs. "The disappearance of an entire construction team and all of their drafts and blueprints cannot be blamed on a superstition. I am willing to help you, defend you on any account you want, but you must be honest with _me_."_

"_For the love of all things sacred, I am being honest with you!" LaBrant shouts. "I am not responsible for the doings of our resident Ghost! I didn't even see the blueprints. I did only as I was asked; I collected them and gave them to the team without even a word. I don't know what additions they made, or if they made any at all."_

"_Witnesses swear that they've seen the team transporting material into the building on occasion. Something must have been done with it."_

"_Well _I_ swear to _you_, the moment I stepped back into this place, nothing looked out of place or changed, not at all. The Opera we left last season is the same Opera we've returned to, the exact same. Nothing has been done here!"_

_The attorney leans back in his seat and sighs. "It looks like we've got a real live mystery on our hands then," he chuckles. "A haunted Opera, a demanding ghost, a private renovation, a missing construction team, and no blueprints to even hint at what when on inside before they disappeared."_

_The manager shakes his head, baffled. "I don't know how to explain it. I learned long ago not to question this chap's demands. I did only as he asked…took his note and closed the Opera for the entire season, and hired the construction team. The whole building was vacant. I was the last one out of it, though I suspect our 'Ghost' remained. I didn't look at the blueprints at all. I merely handed them off to the team. And I didn't return until last week when I began to receive all of these letters and lawsuits." The brittle crackle of stiff paper sounds as he waves the telegrams in the attorney's face._

_I am quite comfortable beneath the floor under LaBrant's desk; the rewarding scent of freshly sheared wood drifting past my nose, the soft support of the crimson pillow beneath my neck, and the undying satisfaction at the panic laced through the words of my manager's outrage._

"_Let's have a look at this place," suggests the attorney after a long pause. "I don't normally do this, but don't you find this the slightest bit intriguing?"_

_A delighted grin widens my face._

"_You won't find anything, I assure you," says M LaBrant wearily, scratching at his despicable moustache._

_Of course they won't. If they do, they will die._

"_You know, before I got into law, I wanted to be a detective," comes the attorney's smooth voice. A great screeching of chairs against the hard wood attacks my ears, and I remind myself that this is the price to pay for instructing the team to hollow a space beneath the floor._

_The two gentlemen leave the office. Narrow, golden shafts of light seep through the cracks in the floor, and spots of dust tumble about in them._

_I hook my fingers in the cracks and used the leverage to pull myself into the drop sitting a few feet before me. The constricted cavity will one day become too small for me, as I am still growing. But for the present, it will serve nicely as one of my many outlets for eavesdropping on the most intimate and central affairs of the opera house. The construction team had no one to ask questions of, and therefore, my plans have been executed perfectly. _

To my amusement, it soon became clear that the attorney would never have had a future in the detective agency. It was my manager whose search would one day prove fruitful; the attorney's love for intrigue far outweighed his knack for it.

At the time, though, I hadn't a concern at all.

Of course, the fact that my actions might have been the end of the Opera soon became more than a suggestion, but an actuality. For nearly two seasons after the aforementioned ordeal, my manager was plagued with lawsuits and threats that the government would close the theatre. What resulted was a series of clues, planted by myself, that led to believable conclusions which brought as much of the blame as possible away from the Opera Populaire and M LaBrant.

At long last, the mystery was quieted in the paperwork of the government, but ignited in the minds of the select Parisian society, who circulated their petty lives around gossip and scandal. The Populaire was officially "haunted"…the Opera Ghost became the main attraction that drew the elite to the productions, who would indulge in them delightedly while keeping an eye out for a shadow in the rafters. I am famous, and nobody has seen my face. I am a celebrity, but I have no means to enjoy my own self-inflicted renown.

It is truly a shame that M LaBrant's curiosity one day got the best of him. Before his death, he always conducted himself so agreeably.

The sounds of supper and merriment drift lazily to me as I pass over the dining hall. I can _feel_ Christine there, though I cannot hear her. She is always so silent when in the company of others. Good. The less she associates with the calamity that is the world, the more suited she is for my plans.

I swiftly find my way back to my house below the Opera and lay the violin aside. Spread across my organ are sheets of halfway-penned music. I have written many symphonies in my incongruous life, many of which have been performed in this theatre when there is an under-abundance of worthy music on the market. Often I marry my music to words. I have sung many storeys to Christine; my talents as a lyricist are unquestionable. For years now, though, the idea of intertwining my gifts of storeytelling and composing on a larger scale has played at my mind.

I lower myself onto my seat before the grand organ and let my eyes consider the unfinished music. Each sheet declares a different emotion; by merely glancing at the unique spread of notes it is clear what each piece is saying. The dissonantly stacked chords and sharp leaps between the black dots of the first page scream of incensed, wicked _corruption_. The characters on the second sheet of music are more softly contrasting, slinking in their rests and minor arpeggios in a manner that whispers of slow seduction and the beginnings of desire.

There are three instruments that I feel are incarnations of the mortal soul. The organ is anger; the piano is love; and the violin is pain. The harmony or disharmony of the three different instruments together is passion. It occurs to me that the dozens of incomplete pieces I have written could all be merged into one magnificent endeavour that encompasses each of these. Is there a more obvious choice, than that I might make these into an _opera_ instead of simply a symphony? There are innumerable storeys to be told, endless great lives and heroic voyages to be recounted on the stage.

A myriad of opportunities for me to release Christine and the talent I am moulding within her to the recognition she deserves.

I close my eyes and play from memory the music written out on the various sheets, willing my mind to produce an instantaneous recollection of a deserving tale or hero of the past that could find new life on the stage. Names and legends spring into my psyche of worthy candidates: Julius Caesar…Mary Tudor…the Odyssey…Cristobal Colombo…the Knights of the Round Table. Typical, natural, obvious choices, each with fascinating storeys that have been clichéd as the result of far too many retellings. Really, where is _my_ imagination? Clearly the music is not inspiring any true creativity within me. Perhaps my approach is wrong.

I abandon the organ and walk the expanse of the room. The lake, where it is not shrouded in fog, glimmers in the firelight. I kneel where the water breaks on the stone shore and steal a fleeting glance at my reflection. Flashing back at me is a menacing shadow with a skull of white over half of its face. It is clear, all of a sudden, why none of the historical figures satisfies me. The storey that brims within me is not one of heroes and goodness at all. Instead, it is the desperate, brooding cry for understanding, and if not understanding, _esteem_, for the villains and their misdeeds who have haunted history and its ethics. The storey that begs to be told is plainly mirrored in my music.

I sit at the mahogany desk in front of the fireplace and rest the tip of a pencil against golden parchment. The music still plays within the confines of my skin, and names of entirely different historical and mythical figures and expeditions dance through my mind. The pencil strokes over the surface of the parchment in a long, oval motion. Men I would long ago have strangled or drowned before giving even a second thought to the purposes behind their actions. A great eye opens on the page, with lashes of soft, smudged lead. Traitors and mutineers and pirates, Cain and Judas and Morgan LeFay. My hand aches furiously as I grip the pencil, but surprisingly, the strain I feel is impossible to detect within the graceful, easy lines I produce. Cortéz, Attila, Nero, the witches of Salem and the Titans and Hades himself.

My hand drops to the surface of the table, and the pencil clatters and rolls off the side. My fingers lift delicately the golden parchment, and I behold it in the light of the fire beside me. The child returns my gaze with a ghost of a smile playing at her dimples. My mouth is slightly parted, and I draw a slow breath through it. It is Christine, and I had not even expected it.

"Aminta," I breathe. "You will play my Aminta."

I have found my muse, and upon looking at her, I know exactly whose tale my music is meant to retell. Mozart beautifully attempted such a feat with his Don Giovanni, but where he triumphed with his music, he failed with his storey; his intent was only to recount the "evil" of such a man and disregard the passion with which he seduced. It is time that his legendary romance be told in the unblemished, hidden truth of his twisted soul. The stage will again be haunted by the great lover of the world, but where Mozart failed, I will triumph; my Don Juan will forever be looked upon in a different light, in which I will retell history in his favour and he will at last be acknowledged as the genius he was.

I lay the drawing of my ingénue in the dark studio next to my music quarter. When she is ready, she will sing my opera…and the world will finally hear me through them both.

**A/N…Sorry for the delay. Unfortunately, this will be the last chapter up for awhile, as life has unfortunately gotten severely in the way. I am a lead in the musical at my college, and between classes and rehearsals I am at school from early morning until late evening, and I just no longer have time for anything. I have several more chapters written, but until I can't upload until I have written more to fall back on. Thank you so much if you've stuck with me so far! If I have been reading your fics and have failed to review your most recent chapters, PLEASE bear with me! I promise you I will review, when I have time to thoroughly read them.**


	24. The arrival of the pelican

**Lefevre**

Her hair was obnoxiously blonde.

I leant back in my chair, studying her as she primped herself in front of a hand-held mirror. The extremely white powder with which she dusted her face was as obnoxious as her hair. Neither looked natural against her Italian countenance. Her eyebrows had been deliberately painted into an exaggerated curve, and her lips brightly pinked and ferociously outlined to give the illusion of fullness.

She hadn't yet said a word.

"She has a remarkable history behind her," said the well-spoken Italian agent. "She was the leading soprano for more than five years at the Teatro di Bellezza, and has been trained in an _Ospedali_ conservatory since she was ten. She's performed in grand operas such as _Pompeo_, _Le Nozze di Figaro_, and _Faust_ to name a few. Quite a record, indeed."

"Signor Morelli," I interrupted, sitting straight. "Regardless of my obvious position, I really don't care at all for the arts of the big names that come with them. All I want is to hear the woman sing. Shall we?"

Signora Giudicelli immediately came to attention. "Well," she spat, and I nearly jumped at the bright, nerve-wracking voice. "Eet's about-a time."

And with that one sentence, any optimism I had coming into this conference left me. Her shrill tones surely wouldn't sound any better in song. But I owed them an audition. Blast if I knew anything about music. She had been a leading soprano in the past; perhaps her offensive voice would soften a bit when put to a piano. If she could sing high enough without shattering glass, I supposed I would have to take her, seeing that I was desperate.

Seeing that the Phantom still demanded his salary, after all.

"Very well then," I concurred, standing, and the two Italians and their posse stood as well. "If you would kindly follow me, I will lead you to the auditorium."

We left my office. Giudicelli's voice was shrill even in murmurs as she spoke in hushed tones with her agent in their native Italian. I made my way to the stage, where M Reyer was already waiting with his instrumentalists and his unsure expression. "Monsieur," I addressed him, and moved my hand in the direction of the Italian diva. "Signora Carlotta Giudicelli, accompanied by Gestapo Morelli, her agent." I introduced the conductor to the two and motioned Giudicelli to the stage.

"Gestapo, ma music!" demanded Carlotta, gesturing wildly. The agent produced a collection of sheets and handed it to her. She snatched it away wildly. "You always haff to bend-a the paper, ya?" And with a flurry of Italian words, she made her way toward the stage, thrust the music into M Reyer's hands, and ascended the steps, with two cronies waddling behind her.

The short, unkempt duck of a woman wielded a glass bottle of pink liquid, which she promptly sprayed into the diva's throat. The taller one with spindly limbs straightened the Italian's mass of yellow hair, until Carlotta slapped them both away. "Monsieur?" she demanded, her shoulders back and one hand resting in the air—in practised position to sing.

I smacked my lips nervously and took a seat with Signor Morelli in front of the remaining of Giudicelli's posse, and before sitting I briefly noticed that several chorus members and stagehands had gathered about the room—undoubtedly eagre to hear the new leading hopeful.

Reyer shuffled the music and divided it between himself and the pianist. The Italian screeched at him. "Ah'm ready! 'Allo!"

I winced and glanced to the agent at my side. "Why…exactly…did Signora Giudicelli leave the Teatro di Bellezza?"

Morelli chewed on his lower lip as he settled into his seat. "Well, it is a funny storey, in a way…it could be called an agreement between La Carlotta and the managers. They did not want her to remain, and neither did she. It cancelled out in the end."

My brow furrowed, and I looked forward as the music began. The soprano wore a contented smirk upon her face, and she threw a grin of feigned humility to her manager before singing:

"_O cessate di piagarmi_

"_O lasciatemi morir!_"

From the first note, I wasn't sure what to think. The piece had begun in a ridiculously high key, so I was confident in her confidence that she could continue to scale higher and higher and still keep in tune. I checked my watch. Her range, then should not be a problem…but my ears protested.

"_Luci ingrate, dispietate_

"_Piú di gelo e piú de' marmi!_"

To give her credit, she hit each note, but the shrillness was slightly offensive.

"_Fredde e SOOOOORDE a miei martir!_"

I grimaced as she elongated the highest note of the piece, and the pianist fumbled over the keys as he tried to improvise his playing to match her self-ordained timing.

I thought it was over as she repeated the first two lines of the aria, but to my annoyance there was yet another page of words to be sung. I sat patiently, biting at my cheek, as she shrilled her way through the song. I never did care for opera. I would be the first to admit I didn't know anything about music. But she sounded quite a bit like all of those confounded opera singers out there, and her range was, in fact, magnificent…and her foreign extravagance was, in a way, _entertaining_.

But really, in truth, I _was_ desperate. I could hardly afford the twenty thousand francs every month as it was, and the Opera's income was lessening with every passing season. We were doing poorly without a star as magnanimous as Willem di Renaldi. I hoped the Opera Ghost was happy with his decision to scare our leading tenor off—it resulted in a catastrophic drop in annuity for his beloved theatre. The main thing we needed now was a star to bring in the money.

La Carlotta could be it. Her voice _was_ pretty underneath all that pompous vibrato. Those upper-class snobs who frequented the Populaire would love her if we sold her well enough. And with a range as impressive as hers, she might be an easy sell.

I wondered if the Phantom approved, and then cursed myself for even caring.

…

**The Phantom**

I shake my head, chuckling in disgust, from my seat in Box Five. From my position, I am only visible to those on stage, and even with that, the shadows blanket me into nothingness. I years ago reconstructed the box so that at the first hint of an intruder, I can disappear from it immediately and nothing will look out of place. It assists me agreeably, especially when eavesdropping on performances such as this.

Carlotta is the musical equivalent to a train wreck.

This I conclude before she even sings.

Her timbre is far too bright and constricted even in her spoken word, if that is what one wishes to call it, to allow any room for relief when set to music. She struts atop the stage as if she's been performing on it throughout the entirety of her pitiable life. It is already clear that I will not be expected to tolerate her even if she _can_ sing well enough to claim the position she seeks.

The piano introduces the piece, and I recognise it as an aria from act two of Scarlatti's _Pompeo_. The aria was originally intended for an alto, but the key she begins in is far too high for a lower-ranged female. I lean forward, eagre to humour myself the second she opens her mouth.

Delightfully, she does not disappoint me.

"_O cessate di piagarmi…_"

My face bursts into the grin that I reserve solely for these occasions. With a horrendous glottal start she takes off, and from there the notes soar on the paradoxical wings of a _vulture_. Her disgusting embellishment at the height of the phrase reflects far more than just her voice, but her entire aura; she is more pretentious than even Willem di Renaldi. Indeed, her range as a soprano does not fail to impress, but none of the notes are hit with either clarity or grace—not that either attribute would compensate for the rest of her voice regardless. The song she has chosen is a tragedy and should be performed in a sombre approach; Carlotta, however, cannot hide her arrogant grin beneath her feigned and repulsively _unnatural_ appearance of grief. The translation of the Italian lyrics glance off my mind as she continues. _Cease to wound me…let me die._ I sneer at the obvious irony. _Cold, deaf to my torture…crueler than a serpent and asp, deaf to my sighs_. It is perfectly scathing! The words she sings reflect the thoughts of all who are unfortunate enough to be present in the room—or within even a kilometre's radius.

For the first time in my life, I actually feel _sympathy_ for other _human beings_ in this moment whose ears have suffered enough.

I remove myself from my seat, cast a long look at my golden opera house and the misplaced shrieking foreigner at its stage, and slip through the rich, blood-red velvet curtains. My eardrums have convinced me to leave the wails of the Italian "diva" to drown in their own pomposity, and I gaily leave my box, confident that M Lefevre will not ever consider employing such a screeching pelican in my theatre.

…

**Lefevre**

"She's hired," I declared.

Carlotta's posse clapped their palms excitedly and floundered about her, and she smiled and generously offered gracious thanks to all who had listened. The residents of the opera house who had listened also applauded her, and whispered amongst themselves with wide grins and energetic nods. With each passing moment I grew more confident. She wasn't a _bad_ singer at all, as far as the operatic type went…the truth was, she was a rather _good_ singer with some rather _obnoxious_ exaggerations. She would definitely do to an obnoxious society.

A look of great relief passed over Signor Morelli's features, and he shook my hand. "Thank you, Monsieur. This is an investment you will surely not regret."

My eyes landed on the flamboyant diva as she fluttered between false demureness and self-importance. I had an idea that, in time, I would. But right now, money was the issue, and money was my highest priority.

Oh, Mother Mary, I could not wait to retire.

"La Carlotta's husband, I may have mentioned, is also a veteran of the stage," the agent went on. "He could not join us today, but I have a distinct feeling that he will also be ripe for an audition—if you need a tenor of his qualifications, that is."

"Oh, really," I returned. "Well, we have a few talented young men here as well, but none to truly brag about. When should I expect Signor Giudicelli?"

A sharp glance was thrown my way by Carlotta.

"Oh, Monsieur," chuckled Morelli. "He isn't a Giudicelli at all. The two were stars before they wed, and Signora Giudicelli kept her own surname for publicity's sake. Signor Ubaldo Piangi will be in Paris within the week; I am sure that upon receiving the news of his wife's new position in this Opera, he will be glad to oblige you with an audition."

I nodded and clasped my hands together. "Very good, then…very good indeed. We could always use another star here at the Populaire." I threw a brief glance to the rafters, reminding myself that I had done the only smart thing to do in such a situation, and he couldn't possibly disagree.

**A/N…Yeah, I still haven't fully returned…but I thought I'd upload anyway. Might be helpful to let you know that a couple of years have passed, and Christine is now thirteen years old. I don't know when I'll upload next…but for those of you who are still reading, you have no idea how grateful I am. Merry Christmas!**


	25. A tuneful note

**Madame Giry**

Undoubtedly, it had to do with Carlotta.

I had heard the shrill soprano from an entirely different wing of the opera, and my students had not been able to concentrate due to their curiosity. And if I, with my average human ears, had heard her, there was no question that the Phantom with his extraordinary senses had heard her as well.

I opened the door to the manager's office, entered, and closed it silently behind me. "You wanted to see me, Monsieur?" My eyes fell to the crumpled envelope and shattered fragments of wax from the blood red seal about his desk. I levelled myself to meet Lefevre's eyes—he appeared annoyed, and drawn, and entirely exhausted of the Opera Ghost's incessant demands.

"Lately," he said, his hands shaking, "he's been rhyming them." And he handed the note to me. I took it wordlessly, and my eyes scanned the familiar red etchings.

"_Lefevre, I'm highly disappointed_

"_You couldn't make a fouler choice_

"_Revenue, I'm aware_

"_Is a must, but there_

"_Has not been_

"_A worse insult to culture_

"_Than this vulture_ w_ith a foghorn as a voice!_"

I folded the letter and passed it back to him. I had been through far too many managers to laugh now.

"There's more!" He threw the letter to his desk. "The first note of his that arrived in such a manner even came with a scrap of music…as if he actually expects me to plunk out the notes and hear his demands as a song!"

"And did you?" I asked.

The manager's face reddened underneath his brown-grey moustache. He nodded sullenly. "And now I can't get the infuriating tune out of my head." And with that, he proceeded to sing the most recent note aloud to me.

I stopped myself before I could smile, but my pursed lips only held me in reservation for so long. Instead of exposing my humour, I spoke. "What are you going to do, then?"

"I was hoping you could help me," he said, sitting, and motioning for me to do so as well. I obliged. "I don't know what the Ghost finds so trustworthy in you, and I don't care to know either. But surely there is a way—any way—that you can explain to him," and his beady eyes widened, "that while he still demands his _twenty thousand_ francs," his voice grew with every word, "he cannot be picky, about who we employ, to bring in his blasted _money_!"

I remained stiff. The tune replayed in my mind, and it was beginning to annoy. "The Opera Ghost does not listen to me any more than he listens to you."

"_That's not true!_" he accused. "_You've always kept a secret, and he frequently consults me about you!_"

My jaw ached with an unwanted grin, and I held up a hand. "Monsieur Lefevre, you are beginning to rhyme yourself—however unwell."

The manager obtained an expression of disgust as he recalled his sudden melodious rant. "I don't believe I just did that!" He sank into his chair, eyeing warily the tuneful note. "I don't believe I'll ever get that little song out of my head."

"Which," I added, "was very likely his intention."

He nodded, irritated. His head rolled on his shoulders, and he looked me squarely in the eye. "He will then have to live with La Carlotta, because for once in my life, I refuse to just give in. I'll write him a little note myself…yes, that's what I'll do." With new energy and a hint of insanity, he rummaged around his desk. "I'll write him back, and I'll tell him just why I can't fire her."

I sighed, letting my eyes roll in exasperation. "You are treading on dangerous ground, Monsieur."

"I don't care!" he fumed, clenching his teeth, and he produced a single sheet of paper and a quill. "He's made all tread-able ground dangerous as far as the Opera is concerned. You watch, Madame Giry, and I will show you just how meagerly I fear him!" He slammed the tip of the quill to the paper, and it snapped in half. We both watched his quaking hand for a moment before he spoke, his voice a pathetic tremble. "What…what do you think I should write?"

I gathered my skirts about me and stood. "You'd do best to flatter him," I advised. "Play his own game. Who knows? Perhaps he will respect you for it."

Beneath carefully-combed brows, Lefevre's eyes implored me. "Do you think?"

I shook my head as I exited. "Not at all, Monsieur."

…

**The Phantom**

My box waits, and my salary.

The golden lobby of the Populaire is deserted. On most occasions I make my way to my box through hidden corridors and darkness, but often it is refreshing to stroll through the décor of my foyer and take in its magnificence.

With no reservation, I step out into the open, in perfect sight of anyone who might unexpectedly entre. This doesn't stop me; in fact, it is a rather encouraging thought. It has been far too long since I have revealed a glimpse of myself to anyone, and it may be entertaining to make another brief appearance to fuel the residents' gossip.

Unfortunately, the foyer remains empty as I ascend my golden stairway. Lingering here are ghostly echoes of galas and festivities seasonally celebrated within the select members of Parisian society, whom I avoid with great potency but for those occasions when I am possessed with the intention of terrorising them. I have had great fun in this hall, and I frown as I realise that I have caused less and less havoc since Christine became my student.

This will, of course, have to change, as soon as my imagination provokes me to do something drastic.

For now, though, I have only one purpose: to collect my salary. In his first year of management, Lefevre exercised several different attempts to catch me in the act of retrieving my money from my box—as have each of the managers before him. Each has failed, by some manner of my trickery, and grown tired of such a mission, resigning finally to paying me without complaint (except, of course, in verbal nature). I am now free to collect the envelope without making great preparations for unwanted traps, though indeed I have prepared my box to prevent a disaster involving my own exposing, in the event that the manager has taken it upon himself to entrap me again.

Madame Giry, for example, is one of my preparations, and has been since she agreed to become my accomplice four years ago.

At the end of each month, after the manager deposits my money into Box Five, she waits for me in the shadows of the curtain, ready to alert me if I need to make myself disappear. Faithfully, there she is. Her hair is pulled back tightly behind her head, and her steely expression remains as she watches me.

I train my eyes on her as I approach, trusting that she senses my gratitude. With a quick, cautionary glance over her shoulder, she steps even further into the shadows. I draw back the curtains, subconsciously readying myself for anything, though I made certain my manager's whereabouts before coming. The white envelope protrudes slightly from between the seats.

Smiling, I pull at the edge. Another smaller envelope drops to the floor, and after a glance that ensures all of what I am due is present, I kneel to grasp it. The familiar grey seal belongs to Lefevre. There are three things that come to mind when I think of Lefevre: a grey seal, a lasso, and a moustache.

I move around the seats and settle myself into one, sliding my finger into the envelope and breaking the seal. He's left me a note? I shake my head, my mouth forming something of a smirk at his audacity, and slip the note from the envelope. "_To whom it may concern_," I whisper aloud, "_I have once again dutifully left you your salary, without objection. However, I fear this may be the last time I can afford such a sum, if you insist on firing_—excellent deduction, Monsieur—_Signora Giudicelli. I realise that your tastes in music are impeccable and you want only the best for this Opera, but surely you have noticed that we are not pulling in money the way we did when we still had Willem di Renaldi. If we don't find a star of his calibre soon, I will have to close the theatre. La Carlotta's vocal style may not be to your taste, but if you know the theatre-going society as well as you claim to, you'll agree that she could be a smashing hit. To put it plainly, I want to spare this wreck_—wreck!—_as much as you do, and I fear the only way to do so is to give Giudicelli a nice trial run, and see what the public thinks. Oh yes…and though I am loathe to bring it up…the violinist's daughter is currently occupying the dressing room that must be given Carlotta, in all due cordiality. My sincerest apologies, M Gregory Lefevre_."

My laugh disturbs the still, quiet atmosphere of the empty theatre.

Pocketing my money, I seize the note between my fingers and make my way out of Box Five, shaking my head to rid myself of the unnaturally ludicrous grin. I pass Madame without even a word, still restraining myself from tittering, and I can feel her questioning gaze on my back. Lefevre's office is not far from the lobby. Happily I stride toward it.

His bureau is empty, and his desk is cluttered with unpaid bills and masses of needless paperwork. I slam my gloved hands in the centre of the mess and sweep them aside in opposite directions, clearing a space on the surface. The wide smile does not leave my face. Carefully I situate his note in the middle of the mahogany wood, and reach beneath my cloak for the small, sharp, gleaming object I desire.

The dagger is attractive, and though I am reluctant to let it go, I am content that I can possibly retrieve it later. I raise my arm, taking amused notice of the ominous shadow my murderous stance casts upon the wall. With a laugh that is quite childish in nature I plunge the dagger into the desk, through the centre of my manager's note, and I clasp my hands in satisfaction.

Surely he will receive the message well.

Hands still clasped in front of me, I joyfully turn and leave his office. My pupil is waiting for me.

**A/N…So we lost internet access for awhile. Now we have it back. And guess what? We're getting rid of it all for good. Like, as in, by next week. So I'm going to upload chapters at a very rapid rate; I still have several written, and several more to write. I don't know how I'm going to continue to upload once we get rid of the net, but I'll see if I can find a way…somehow.**


	26. Her innocent solicitation

**Christine**

I fingered the sheets carefully. The edges were softly browned and seared by flame; he always fashioned my music in such a manner. I lifted the pages to my nostrils and inhaled the scent of candle-smoke, and my eyes fluttered closed.

"_Christine…Christine…"_

My eyes still closed, I felt my mouth turn up in a smile. The soft, mysterious lull of his voice trickled from my ears to my toes. I inhaled through my grin. "Angel," I breathed.

Almost inaudibly came the tones of my father's violin, and just above that, the Angel's voice. "What you are holding is Susanna's aria in Mozart's _Le_ _Nozze di Figaro_. It is a great deal more advanced than those I've given you until now, but the octave leaps will fine-tune your voice for such a performance. We will work on maintaining your vibrato whilst scaling arpeggios."

I smiled, opening my eyes. "I will someday sing the role of Susanna, then?"

"I will personally see that _Figaro_ is performed in this theatre when you are ready."

"I shall try," I promised, and held my music before me.

As the Angel took me through the first page, my mind began to wander, back to the months after my father died when my tutoring began. Fondly I recalled how I would sit at the fireplace at the beginning of each lesson, and my Angel would talk to me and touch my imagination; I would excitedly retell all of the storeys Father had once told me, and he would listen as I recounted my days before the Opera Populaire.

"Use all of your breath, Christine. Spend it _all_."

Those memories were warm, but ruefully distant…it had been so long since the Angel and I had shared such moments. For years now, his only intent was to transform me into the Prima Donna that Father had promised I would become. I was grateful, beyond words, and I cherished every moment I spent with my Angel, but a childish part of my soul still missed those special evenings where he and I would just talk—the way my father and I once did.

"Heighten the vowels. Raise the soft pallet."

Of course, I knew now it was for my own good. For those first two years, I was still too young to handle my grief properly, too young to manage without a father. The Angel recognised this and provided me with what I needed, when I needed it—a friendly voice and a listening ear. But he knew just as clearly when it was time for me to grow up, leave the child behind. The paternal bearing I once found such comfort in, he withdrew, so he could fully assume the position of Teacher, and nothing else.

I understood, and I was grateful. But still, every so often, I wished….

"Christine, you cannot expect to control your vibrato in _this range_ if you aren't giving as much breath as you initially take." His reprimand came sharply, and I stood at attention, my ears flushing. "There must be no oxygen left lingering in your lungs after each end note; your body must be completely void of remaining breath when you inhale at each rest. Your mind is not with me today; and you cannot utilise your body if I do not have your mind. I am losing my patience."

I tried to nod as I grimaced. "Forgive me, Angel, but it is so hard to spend an entire breath and still maintain my stance."

"Well," came his reproach, "that is only because you are pulling the air into your _chest_ and not into your stomach. The muscles of your abdomen must be in complete repose at both the breath's entry and evacuation."

My head bobbed as I tried to inhale properly.

"No, no, no, Christine! Your chest is rising; _how_ many times must you learn and _re_learn this technique? Your mind is too focused on gaining an extravagant amount of breath than the proper placement of that breath."

_No, it is not, Angel_, I inwardly objected. _My mind is not on singing at all_.

"Now, do as I say; place one hand over your heart, and press the other into your lower stomach."

I did as he said, closing my eyes, and felt my fluttering heart beneath my fingers; how I hated it when he was angry with me. A long pause, and I held my breath, unsure, waiting for his command. When his voice did come again, I was struck at the change; no longer did he sound angry, or even irritated. In fact, his voice nearly wavered, as if it were he who was under the inspection and not I! My brow furrowed, but I remained still.

"Now, breathe," he said, and then all too quickly, "and I want you to feel the intake of breath against the hand that is on your stomach—" a pause—"instead of the hand on your chest."

I obeyed, directing the breath to my midsection, and my chest did not rise at all; instead, my stomach expanded with the breath. Surely that was correct. I smiled, and breathed again, eyes still closed. "Like that?"

There was another hollow silence before he responded. "Yes…Christine…like that."

I opened my eyes, proud of myself, awaiting his instruction.

Stillness.

My heart pulsed under my fingers, and I concentrated on respiring correctly; it was a strange feeling, knowing that he could see me, though he possessed no mortal eyes with which to do so. I longed to see him, to touch him—though his voice sufficed, I wanted to be held. I could still feel his presence, but he said nothing. "Master?"

"I'm here, Christine." His voice levelled in the room, and after another pause, he added, "We will end this evening's lesson early."

My mouth dropped, as did my arms. "Have I done something wrong?"

"No," he assured, "you followed my instructions correctly." His timbre was strained. "We will resume…tomorrow evening, if circumstances permit."

My mouth and arms had already dropped; my shoulders and heart followed suit. "But the morning lesson…in the chapel!"

"Yes, that too!" he returned curtly, distractedly. I wasn't sure whether to cringe, or pout, or stay silent. Our lesson wasn't even half-finished! He had hardly ever cut short a lesson before, and I had learnt from the first time he did so not to enquire him about his decisions. More than anything I only wanted to word my anger, but my own anxiety and self-doubt prevented me. I nodded and sullenly gathered up my music, my head full of questions. His presence quickly faded from the dressing room, and my shoulders slumped. What ever had I done wrong this time?

…

**The Phantom**

"_Merde!_"

Even a whisper resonates within this passage, I notice, as the obscenity hisses back in my face from every wall in the corridor.

My mind is twisting upon itself, competing with the miscellany that is forming of my gut. Human emotions have all but fled my existence for years, beginning when I abandoned Erik to the veiled regions of my soul. Surely I have forgotten this one as well! _I am a ghost_, I tell myself, over and over again. _I am a ghost, and ghosts do not feel_. It has been so long since thoughts of this nature have overcome me, I find it hard to remember what I once so faithfully did to repress them.

My hand clutches my abdomen and my head rings. _I am a ghost_. My footfalls sound back at me as I force myself out of the passage and onto the stone stairway. _I am a ghost_. It was a lesson like many others before it; the child was simply lost in thought and I was eagre to bring her back into the present. _Ghosts do not feel_. Against my wishes, my mind recalls the moments just before.

_My impatience is bleeding into my voice._

_She is not supporting her respiration, and she cannot do so by listening to instruction alone. As my words flow, I am struck suddenly, with an urge to place my arms around her torso and physically demonstrate the proper position. An image of my hands pressing her body into correct stance flashes briefly into my mind, but I shake the thought away; that would be ridiculous, and fatal to my charade. But the image does not leave me; instead, it fills my senses. I continue. "Now, do as I say; place one hand over your heart, and press the other into your lower stomach."_

_Christine is always anxious to please me with her obedience. With a slight nod, she does just as I instructed; compliantly, her right hand falls to her abdomen. I watch as she spreads her slender fingers and exerts pressure against her stomach. Her left hand falls gently atop her chest, the palm of which is in the proper position to detect her heartbeat. The narrow lengths of her fingers contrast against the white plane that is her chest, and I can almost feel the fervent pounding beneath my own hand. Without fully realising where my thoughts are, I imagine what she would feel like inside of such an embrace; tense, and warm, and soft._

"_Now, breathe," I say, strangely aware of a quickening of my pulse, "and I want you to feel the intake of breath against the hand that is on your stomach—" sudden heat begins to rise to my neck—"instead of the hand on your chest."_

_Christine does so, and I gaze upon her upper body intently, making certain that it does not move with her breath. True to my command, her chest does not expand at all as she inhales; instead, her hand stays motionless and in place, resting carelessly across the tiny swells of her breast._

_I wrench myself into a straighter posture, appalled suddenly. What _was_ that? A very small part of me has endlessly wanted to hold her, to feel her tiny arms around me in a loving embrace, and I have for years forced such paternal affection as far from my consciousness as possible. But what, in the name of all things between Heaven and Hell, is this? Surely I have not just allowed even a _hint_ of a thought bordering on lust to encroach upon my evaluation of Christine._

_That is impossible._

_My eyes are suddenly drawn to her body again, and I am numb as I gaze at her. She breathes again, and again, and I am transfixed. I realise this, to my horror, and move my eyes to her face, stunned, as she asks if she performed correctly. I word my agreement, training my eyes on hers, entirely alarmed at the horrible thoughts that flicker in and out of my consciousness._

_My head feels as if it will split as I take in the wickedly enticing scene. My masterpiece stands before me, young, trusting, and eagre to gain my approval. She is _my_ child. She is my _childThis is my Christine_, I tell myself, _my child, my ingénue, my student…my child_. My gut twists, and my body is racked with sudden, unwanted heat as I look upon the little girl I have been a father and teacher to for the past six years. Somewhere within me I have the capacity to marvel at the blinding power of lust, and how at lust's first call I am consumed by every inch of her, of Christine, whom I have never wanted in my life, and every subtle movement, every minute detail, is sensual and womanly. Mercifully, my brain foregoes my actions. At once I feel as if I will be sick, and I realise the only thing I can do is to leave her immediately._

I drop to the cold stone steps, my mouth open in disgust at myself. No. No. "I am a monster," I force from my throat, and I swallow the words quickly as I realise that the new onslaught of emotions is the banished human side of me trying to resurface again. "You," I growl at myself, "you are the fault of this perverse ambush." I hate that I cannot wholly remove the part of me that is Erik, regardless that I have managed to quiet him into submission for years. I am a ghost, and therefore I do not love, do not even lust. I am cursed with humanity—I have always known this, and yet still, it shocks me into disbelief that such a perversion could ever come about me.

Christine flashes into my mind again, and again, and I tear off my mask so my fingers can dig into temples. _She is not even fourteen, you monster_, I remind myself. _She is your child. She is your creation, damn it, she is too pure, too innocent to be tainted by such abominable and unnatural lust! Was it not your original intent to give her back her _father, _you beast?_ A strange, guttural sound emerges from my chest, and I shudder at my own wickedness. I want to vomit, as forbidden sensations devastate me. My concealed humanity has loved her for years, has cherished her with a father's love, and though I have worked hard to stifle such emotions, I have never been able to deny their quiet existence. And that is why that same humanity that loves Christine as if she is my own _daughter_ is now looking upon her with desire, and is tearing me apart with guilt over its own unwilling actions!

I deserve _Hell_, and everything it offers. A violent chill sweeps through my skeleton, and I jerk my head, begging to be rid of such thoughts. Christine…her hands strewn about her body…the subtle, graceful movements of her limbs as she dances…the rise and fall of her chest as she sleeps…. I jump from the smooth, frigid surface of the stone, my eyes wide and my mouth hung wider, gasping deeply in my panic. I cannot _escape_ these _demonic_ thoughts! I bury my fingernails in my scalp, utterly horrified that my affection embodies itself in lust after a child who should _never_ be looked at other than in a pure and even holy way, and _especially_ not by the man who has deluded himself into replacing her father!

_You admit you are a man, then?_

I cannot go back to my underground lair. Waiting for me there are _hundreds_ of images of Christine, conceived by my own hand whenever it possessed a pencil or paintbrush, and I do not trust myself to look at her again. I scoop up my mask and slam it into my wretched face, the face that hides a wretched soul, and though I am certain that there will be bruises later, I continue to force it into my skin. Knowing that a great deal less care would have secured it in place, I sprint up the steps into the opera house, my cape whipping behind me.

Why I think that running to the only other woman I have ever desired will calm me, I am not sure. But I have nowhere else in the world to go, and she has always been the only one who can help me.


	27. In which Madame's plan fails

**Madame Giry**

"I don't know, Maman…I actually think it is Christine he _really_ likes."

I smiled fondly at my daughter as my fingers looped her locks into a thick yellow braid. "I see him talking to you much more often than I see him with Christine."

Meg shrugged her shoulders thoughtfully. "That is only because Christine doesn't talk much at all. Etienne and I get along just fine, but I think he finds Christine's reservation intriguing. I don't know how she does it, really…I could never be so shy!"

I tied a ribbon around the base of Meg's braid and nodded, but froze mid-nod as my eyes settled on the mirror. In the reflection, I could just barely see the shape of a man, and the light glinting off the white of his mask. Meg was not in a position where she could see him; he had made sure of that. "I would not attribute Christine's silence to shyness, my dear," I said, patting her shoulders, and turning her around to look at me. "Christine is just a secretive person—perhaps you could learn to keep things to yourself a bit more, yes?"

Meg grinned sheepishly. "I suppose. I just find it so exhausting to keep everything inside."

I squeezed my daughter's shoulders and smiled into her eyes. "Now run off and prepare yourself for dinner."

"Yes, Maman," she complied, and jumped from her seat.

I watched as she left the room, and waited until she had shut the door before turning around. The Phantom had revealed himself entirely, and now stood before me. For a second I was struck. His shoulders were back but his head had dropped, and his eyes were wide with both incredulity and confusion. He breathed heavily through his mouth, and his hands were open. His cape hung around his forme like a shadow.

"What is it?" I ventured, unmoving, concerned.

Without responding, he looked at me. I steadied my eyes within his gaze. I no longer feared him the way I once did; I wasn't any longer the object of his attention, and he had succeeded in falling out of love with me years before. Of course, inside he still deeply cared for me, but I was not his obsession anymore, and he held no interest in my daughter; therefore I had nothing to be afraid of for myself.

Though his eyes were on me, his thoughts were not, I could tell. It was only a rare happening that we spoke with each other; we had an understanding and were content with it. I had made myself into something like an accomplice whenever he needed me, though he did not need me often. In return, I had his respect, something no one alive ever had. On the infrequent occasion that we did entre each other's company, it was always because of a serious matter.

He exhaled shortly and his eyes fell from me; his dark forme moved past me, and the Phantom of the Opera dropped himself onto my divan in front of the vanity. I faced him, entirely unsure as to what would put him in such a state. His eyes surveyed his hands, watched his reflection in the mirror, and closed, and his head dropped into his quaking arms.

My heart quickened as I observed him in this defeated manner, and without fully realising what I was doing, I approached him from behind and laid a hand on his shoulder. I wasn't sure that he even felt it. He was not crying, but his shoulder blades were heaving with the harsh breaths that racked him. I waited for him to speak, feeling his warm body beneath my hand, and my heart ached for the little boy I brought to the Opera. _He is not a little boy any longer_, I reminded myself. Instead, he was a full-grown man, and seemingly an ages-old ghost. He was a genius, the most intelligent being, living or not, that I ever knew. In many ways, he was wiser than me, though his wisdom was almost always forgotten beneath his rashness and arrogance. He could never be a little boy again.

He could never be a little boy again, but moments like these, when he abandoned his intimidating, supernatural affectation, I knew that Christine's pure love was eroding his guise of indifference. _In time_, I thought. _In time, I will have him back_.

The Phantom's heavy breathing began to calm, and soon his shoulders were still. A moment later, the melodic sound emerged from the mess before me. "I…I am…" A shaky breath. "She's…too young, too pure and innocent, Madame Giry…she's perfect, and I am a monster."

My brow knit across my forehead. It had been so long since I'd heard him address me…so long since I had even touched him. He was the most mysterious human being I'd ever met—even after having raised him myself. "Explain yourself," I commanded gently, knowing I still had his respect.

His head lifted from the desk, and his eyes connected with the glowing green orbs reflected in the mirror. "Damn him," he said, and he began to straighten, still looking at himself. "It's Erik, the blasted Erik…it's all his doing, not mine, not mine at all."

I gave his shoulder a faint squeeze of encouragement, and for the first time he realised my hand was upon him. His body tensed, and I let my hand fall. "What has…Erik…done?"

His gaze burnt into the mirror, and although he was sitting, I felt completely dwarfed by him. "He will not leave me alone forever. He's yet lurking inside of me," he spat. "Damn, damn, damn, damn!" And he stood.

I tried to meet his eyes in the mirror, but instead he turned around, at his full height, to face me. I swallowed. "It is no use to try to convince you to accept him as part of you," I admitted. "You're far too stubborn once your mind is set."

Surprisingly, this did not anger him. He cocked his head a bit at me; a black look of shame passed over his eyes. "I somehow still love Christine," he said, and a shudder visibly ran through his body. "As much as I haven't let myself love her, it is no use. She is nearly my daughter." His eyes darkened with tears, like a cloud darkening with rain. "Do you finally see why I have worked so hard to abandon him, and maintain this shell without a spirit? It was always so I wouldn't have to love!"

At last, he had admitted that he did, indeed, still love her. I would not let the smile that formed in my heart spill onto my face, though he was too distraught to notice my joy. Christine _would_ bring Erik back out of the Phantom's pit of a soul, and I knew he couldn't fight it for long. I chose my words carefully. "Perhaps it is not such an unruly thing for the Phantom to feel."

He shook his head violently, defiantly, and at once his mouth curved in that terrible smirk. "Oh, if it was only _love_, it would be perfectly fine. But I have explained this to you before, Madame. It is never only love, because love is a vine that branches out all _manners_ of evil. With love comes anger, with love comes hate—and with _love_," he growled through clenched teeth, "comes _lust!_" And with that last word, his mouth twisted, and he turned and slammed his fist into the wall.

I jolted. Stunned, at once, apart from my quiet joy. A shocking, instantaneous thought sparked in my mind with that claim, and a dark feeling was sprung in my gut. "Lust?"

"Lust," he hissed, turning back to face me. "I know lust well. I knew it when I allowed my evil humanity to overwhelm me. I hated because I loved and I hurt you because I lusted. That is why I have shut Erik away all of these years, so I would not hurt those he loves again. Christine is only a child—Christine is _my_ child." Silent, angry tears finally fell from his eyelids and coursed their way down his cheeks. "And yet my head is consumed with thoughts of her—impure thoughts, planted by Satan himself." Another shudder assailed his body. "You," he cried, "taught her to dance! A girl should _never_ learn to parade her body in the first place—and _especially_ not teach _others_ to do so! Do you _know_ how men see?"

My feet rooted themselves to the spot they had claimed on the floor as I slowly processed this revelation. Was what he was implying possibly true? Christine, little Christine, had become victim to the Phantom's lust? After had had loved her, tutored her, _fathered_ her? "No," I said to him. This meant that he no longer saw Christine as a child, but as the woman she was slowly blossoming into. And that meant that his affection for her could easily blossom into…was it even possible? I brought my fists to my mouth, sucking in the air. Darkness flooded my entire soul as the impact of what was happening finally met with my mind—with the force of a hammer.

I had created this.

Memory after memory struck me at once. He had needed me to love him as a woman loves a man, and I refused him, giving him Christine instead, thinking that the love of a daughter to a father would suffice him and preserve his humanity. But as much as he wanted to desert his mortal needs, he was still a man…he was still a man, and a man would always crave a woman. Striking into my mind came the memory of the Phantom's rope around my neck—but it wasn't my neck any longer. It was Christine's. I sank slowly atop my mattress, and my hands fell to my heart. _Breathe, Madeleine_. Little girls grew up. In trying to give him a daughter, I had given him yet another woman to claim his passion.

How could I have not foreseen this?

"You can't," I forced from my constricted throat, as he watched me helplessly. "You cannot do that to her…not like you did to _me_." Great fear grew inside of me, as I quickly came to comprehend what might come of this, what I had inadvertently done to Christine. "You cannot let me go, only to take another into captivity. She is like your child," I said, my voice strengthening. I could not meet his eyes. "Remember that she is your _child_, and you are her father's promised Angel."

"I have told myself the same, _again_ and _again_. I realise entirely that it is an abomination for a father to desire his daughter," he asserted, his deep voice shaking with breath, the endless shame of the whole world in it. "The darkest realms of Hades are set aside for _incestuous_ Demons like myself. I am tormented…" he groaned loudly, his jaw trembling… "with both desire and disgust, both greed and guilt, and it is all because I am still human, after all of these years."

He was pacing about my flat now, his heavy cape sweeping papers from desks and books from shelves.

"I cannot continue to live with both of these inside of me—it is far too much for anyone to ask." The Phantom's tall, shadowy forme halted, and there was silence. Suddenly, without any warning at all, he whipped around and smashed his hand into my mirror; I screamed, and the shards tinkled over my desk and the floor around it. His gloved hands gently swam through the littering of broken glass about the desk, and his fingers closed around a long, sharp sliver. "I could end it all right now, in fact." And slowly, he lifted the glass, and with what was left of the vanity, I saw him expose his right wrist to the mirror's glare.

The meaning of his actions entered my mind, and my shock and nausea at his revelation disappeared momentarily. "_What_ are you doing?" I gasped, rushing at him. He whirled to face me, dropping the glass, and I stopped abruptly, inches from him. My voice, however, continued. "You wouldn't take your life so rashly at passion's first solicitation! You can end this," I insisted, "without ending your own life with it!" My face contorted into a glare. "Don't you realise? You love her purely, but you don't know what to do with such an extreme and dangerous awareness! You have suppressed Erik for years…you cannot give up now!" My words shocked even me. What on earth was I saying? Was I so afraid for Christine that I was willing to abandon all of my hopes for Erik to return?

I brought a hand to my lips.

The Phantom penetrated me, and his words matched my thoughts. "What are you saying, Madame?" he smirked, incredulous. "Has it not been your intention since the beginning for Christine to restore my soul?" At my frightened expression, he nodded. "Oh, yes, I have known exactly what your _plans_ were. You _wanted_ me to love Christine because she loved me as well, and therefore, the Ghost would die and only the human would remain. I will tell you something now," he growled, and he took my shoulders. My skin buzzed; he had not touched me in such a way for years. His words were carefully formed over his deep, emotional voice. "I can never give you back your Henri. I can never be your son."

My lungs filled with air, and I felt dizzy. Yes. I had to protect Christine—I could not convict her to the life I had lived, just to salvage the Phantom's scrap of humanity and finally have him as my own, as one I could love, who would love me as a mother. _Erik is never meant to love_, I realised. He had been right all along. He _could not_ love without becoming fatally obsessed. "I know that now," I quietly agreed. "I know that I have lost you completely." A pause. "I could not save you, and I thought Christine could. But now I see that that is entirely hopeless. It has proven too dangerous to deliver Erik back into the company of the Phantom, because the Phantom does not know how to handle human emotions. You are forever gone, and I cannot any longer use Christine to bring you back. I cannot risk her life to save yours."

His lips were pursed, and his jaw was clenched beneath them. The cool green eyes implored me, and his gloved hands remained gripped on my shoulders. Painstakingly, he took a breath. "Then neither of us has faith in me any longer."

My heart broke, and he could hear it break.

The Phantom nodded, and a fresh wave of tears crested at his eyelids. I realised, for the first time since he was ten years old, that I was looking at Erik alone—not the Phantom, not the Angel, but only Erik, as he was born to be…and I knew it was the last time I would ever see him. My whole life from that first moment had been spent convincing myself that I could protect Erik, and his until only years ago had been spent trying to give me my wish, without success. But in these last years, he had discovered what I had refused to believe: there was no redemption for him, and the Phantom would never be gone. I created the Opera Ghost, and I had expended my entire life and his trying to save him from it. And right there in my flat in the Opera's dormitories, I, the strict ballet mistress, the accomplice of the Phantom of the Opera, cried for two lives that had been wasted, and another I had helped to hurt.

I wanted to lean into his chest; instead I sat on my bed and wept for him, and for me, and for Christine. Only moments ago I had concluded that he was wiser than me in some ways; now, I fully realised the terrible truth of that revelation. "I thought Christine was the third road," I cried into my hands. "I had no idea what I was doing."

He pursed his lips, and his Adam's apple bobbed. "There is only one road, and I have taken it." His voice rose a little, strengthened. "I am not angry with you, Madame. Your quest was honourable. I cannot blame you for not seeing what I saw long ago. I cannot blame you for wanting to retain hope for me."

I nodded. One glance in his beautiful, heart-wrenching eyes, and I was struck with an outrageous thought: I loved him. All of these years, I had tried to save him, shape him into a person I could love—but I never acknowledged the fact that I already loved him, never even knew it before now. I had loved him since I helped him escape from Gypsy camp…regardless of what he didn't want, I loved him as if he was indeed my son, my own flesh and blood. I could not tell him, though. I couldn't…not now, now that I wanted him to forget what love felt like. "I don't want to believe I have failed you," I sniffed, knowing how truly pitiful I must have looked—a catlike woman in her fourth decade, sniveling like a baby—but I didn't care.

All I wanted to do was hold my child as close to me as I possibly could.

Erik looked down at me, the tears that had begun still standing in his eyes. "You did not fail me. You were never responsible for me. You rescued me before the world could destroy me, and for that I owe you everything. But I have nothing to give. I am sorry, Madame Giry."

Then he was never mine to fail. Even this admission did nothing to ease the horrible sense of defeat. "The only thing I can do, then," I said, setting my mind on a grim conclusion, "is to take Christine from the opera house, so you will not have to think of her any longer."

Erik's body jerked sharply, and I met his eyes. In fact, he was not my Erik at all, I saw. The Phantom shook his head, his jaw fixed, his eyes peering beneath set brows. "What?"

His lack of words shocked me. I repeated my decision.

"You _will not_ do such a thing."

I furrowed my brow at him, still reeling from my new revelation, but bewildered at his. "What are you saying? You would want me to keep her here where you would have to see her, listen to her every day, and not make any contact with her?"

He crossed his arms. "Do you truly want to drive me mad? I cannot abandon her—it would be fatal to both of us."

My face was agape, I was sure. "Do you realise what you're saying?" I growled at him. I could feel the grave lines in my face deepen. "You cannot possibly expect to continue this game. Christine cannot very well idolise an Angel who sings of holiness to her and in the same moment wants her in his bed!"

The eloquent Phantom sneered. "I fear that is where you are wrong, Madame. Unless you have forgotten, I was quite able to remove thoughts of such nature from my being when I set my mind to giving you your freedom. I am thoroughly capable of again viewing Christine as nothing more than my pupil; you said yourself that I have successfully quelled Erik and his emotions for years, and I can do so again."

He had forgotten everything we had just been through entirely, then; he so often did. In the past it had always infuriated me, but now it terrified me. "What was your purpose coming here?" I demanded, as he busied himself with my jewellery. "Without any warning you appear in my room, inform me that you've loved and lusted again, decide to commit suicide in front of my eyes, and then turn around entirely to say that you will continue to be the Angel of Music and spare Christine from your desire at the same time? Are you _insane?_ What are you doing with that?"

The Opera Ghost grinned cruelly over his shoulder, fingering a fine necklace—one I never wore, but kept to remind me of Armande nonetheless. "You've forgotten the short period between my near-suicide and my change of heart, Madame. If you recall correctly, you released me from your expectations that Erik would be redeemed; you gave me the freedom with your admittance to remain the Opera Ghost and abandon all feeling." He lifted his eyebrows at me shortly, smiling. "Though you've rightfully lost faith in my humanity, you've retained faith in my supernatural identity—_do_ _not_ lose that as well." He pocketed the necklace. "This will make a fine gift for my pupil."

My pulse beat at my temples. "I can see very clearly what you are trying to do; just as I once turned the tables and pretended that it was your idea to continue your fabrication as the Angel, you are holding me responsible now for the same thing."

He began to walk in my direction, but I knew he was headed for his secret door. "You, Madame, must learn to make up your mind; your indecisiveness is unattractive. _First_ you are appalled that I would keep such a pretence. Then you are all-too-eagre to _help_ me continue doing so…and now you are against me again?" The Phantom made his way past me with a sardonic smile.

I grabbed at his arm, but he continued, and my hand fell to my side. The intolerable thief disappeared through the door in the wall. I rushed after him, desperately fumbling about the wall, until my fingers slipped into the hidden latch. It was just like the other doors he had shown me. I flung open the door and followed him into the dark passageway that for years I had no idea was even there.

His head swivelled on his neck and he threw a glance over his shoulder at me. "What are you doing, ballet mistress?"

"I will follow you this time!" I shouted, and I quickly discovered that I needn't shout at all as my voice reverberated off the walls. In fact, in that moment, I felt uncharacteristically stupid.

His deep, musical laugh resounded as he quickened his pace. "You expressed a desire once to see my underground home, but your cowardice far outweighed your curiosity then. What has changed?"

"My own safety is no longer a concern," I retorted. "Christine's is."

"You think that I would harm her?"

"Not intentionally," I said, rushing to keep up with him in the darkness. "You never _intended_ to hurt _me_, did you?"

The blackness swallowed him, and I soon found that I could not see where I was stepping. His voice drifted back to my hollowly. "I never hurt you. Erik did, and Erik is dead." A guilty pause. "…For now."

"You idiot," I growled. My footsteps rang out, and with a gnawing dread I found I could no longer hear his. "Where are you?"

No response.

It was unbelievable, that after everything we had ever been through, we were going through this now. _I_ _didn't_ find it funny. I couldn't decide whether to quicken my pace or stand still. I had no idea where I was going. He wouldn't lead me to fall into one of his traps, I was sure…but could he stop me from doing it on my own? "Where are you, you ass?"

"In a matter of a minute, you have called me both an idiot and an ass," came his amused baritone from…_behind_ me. "Perhaps I've underestimated you. Most wouldn't dare speak such things aloud to the Opera Ghost. Really, you never were one to swear."

How I could have strangled him and hoped his arrogance died with him! I whipped around as a torch blared to life. His relaxed posture and contented gaze infuriated me. "You bring out the worst in me then."

He grinned, baring his white teeth. "You brought out the worst in me once too. _Finally_, for the first time in my _life_, some part of my dealings with you have not gone un_requited_."

That hurt my soul—how could he value himself so little, and forget the pain we had suffered so quickly? I crossed my arms, as if to cover the blade that stuck from my gut. His lightness about the situation was more than maddening. "I should have left you with the Gypsies."

Funnily, that did not anger him at all. "Then I would have haunted a circus, instead of an opera…and I would likely have become a tutor to some hopeful young acrobatic ingénue tumbler."

All kinds of curses came to my mind, but I did not word them; none of them he would take seriously, and it would only feed his twisted humour.

"Really, Madame, I have never tolerated such blatant disrespect or invasion of my privacy this much. I don't know why I am willing to make you the exception. Do you wish to see my house?" he enquired, still grinning.

"That was not my intention."

"Then what was?"

"Anything, I suppose, that will stop you from continuing on with Christine."

He sighed, leading me along the passage. "I will never know why you worry to such a foolish extent…. You should have learned years ago that nothing you say will change my mind."

"I have changed your mind before," I reminded.

"Your arrogance will be your downfall. I am inclined now to do _entirely_ the opposite of anything you suggest, if only for spite."

"Then clearly my love for Christine is deeper than yours," I spat, knowing that it would reach levels inside of him that he no longer wanted to acknowledge.

His stride halted abruptly and he rounded to face me. I stopped in my tracks as he cast a long, dangerous glare at me. The Phantom said nothing, though. We both stood in heated silence, the torch flickering against his olive skin, his cloak, his mask. I didn't fear him, but somewhere within me I knew I should.

We continued on without another word.

**A/N…I'd like to clarify a couple of things. Erik is not in love with Christine at this point—he merely loves her with a fatherly love, and that is why he is so appalled at his lust. And this is not the end of E/G. Be a pal and review. The last two chapters didn't even get one between them.**


	28. In his labyrinth

**The Phantom**

At certain times, I loathe her.

I have tried to avoid such a feeling. The Phantom is allowed _some_ emotions, of course. Few. Humour…arrogance…a sense of justice. I do not let myself love, and I do not let myself hate. But I cannot keep my cover of extreme indifference easily when she speaks directly to Erik, especially when he is so receptive.

At times like this, I loathe her.

I turn from her, and quickly fill my mind with the knowledge that she is merely exercising her power over me, taking advantage of my unwanted and, during moments like this, unheeding soul. Overwhelmingly confident that she did not mean what she said at all, I smirk. She hasn't as much power over me as she thinks.

_Why else, then, are you letting her into your home?_ the voice persists.

The flight of stairs broadens, and the steps lengthen. Above our heads, the ceiling disappears, and we entre a wide, cavernous stairway. Against the wall that rises above us, the torchlight faintly grazes the shredded edges of long-since closed Opera posters. With a brief glance over my shoulder, I can see Madame's head turning silently about her body, her eyelids wide. This is as far as I have ever brought her, and she knows it well.

She is frightened.

My heart has been vacant, where she once occupied it, for years. I am a ghost. A _ghost_ can fall out of love with great effort and distance, but the whispers of what once were and what may have been never die—like the human, the one who loves her, the one I hate, will never fully die.

Tentatively, without uttering a word or breaking my stride, I reach my hand backward for her.

Her gaze leaves the vast walls of the cavernous stairway and falls to my outstretched fingers. She is entirely alarmed. I probe her eyes with my own, opening my lips and breathing through a set jaw. I may have nodded slightly in encouragement, or perhaps my confidence in walking my dark stairway without even looking where I am going is what encourages her. Her small, strict hand moves ahead of her until I feel her palm merge with mine; I watch only her eyes, softening with hesitant trust, beneath the graveness of her defined face. Slowly I remember why even her face would mesmerise me. She is like a cat, and a snake, and a swan, all at once. Something deep within me is studying and registering every detail of this moment, where for the first time in my life, she trusts me.

And I am at last going to show her why she can.

I turn my head away from Madame Giry and the memories her gaze springs within me. I have made myself very good at doing this; and this moment when such a bond is forming between us is very dangerous. I must not look at her. _My labyrinth is only the beginning_, I want to tell her, but I know she will see for herself soon enough. I am finally going to show her my lair beneath the Opera, and she will finally see exactly the extent of my haunting existence. She will see my soul, as I once longed to show her above everything else. My soul has changed, however, and I am no longer an uncertain and tormented creature she found in the sewers of the Gypsy carnival, or a destroyed remnant of a man besieged by natural human love and self-inflicted torment, so inherent of the desolate and corruptible animal that is mankind. Upon entering my house, she will finally see why it is better this way.

I am not soulless. This I know. My soul rests within dots of ink which dance over staffs that guide their steps about parchment—trembling in its wait to be released within the grand swells of an orchestra or the pure lilt of a voice, so it can spiral heavenward and for a moment, just for a moment before it reaches the turned heads and condemnation of the Angels, it can believe a place is held for it within Heaven's unadulterated gates. Music.

After twisting upon itself innumerable times in the darkness, the stairway ends. A soft gasp escapes Madame's lips from behind me as she beholds my lake for the first time. I look upon it with a hard smile. "This is where it begins," I whisper to her, and bring her around in front of me. She lets go of my hand, and I watch her, in her long black dress and knotted bun, as she steps to the edge of the water and kneels. Her white-gold hand breaks its surface in a soft motion, and she stands, turning to look at me. The questions in her eyes are countless.

I level my gaze with hers, unable to keep a grin of arrogant amusement from my features. The stone wall beside me hides an inconspicuous lever, and I drag my hand over it while dropping the torch in place. Obediently, the lever springs the door which holds my gondola out of sight, and it comes floating to the shore from the shadows. Madame turns and takes a sudden step back as the ghostly vessel comes to a rest at the edge of the lake. I offer her my hand again, and she steps into it; I follow.

She remains standing, even as I motion for her to sit. Soundlessly we move through the dark waters of the underground lake, and the torches I have kept lit guide our way through the maze. Great stone monuments of ghouls and beasts and giants glower silently back at us from the walls, and though I know she is afraid, her bewilderment that such a realm exists below the Opera still possesses her.

"This," I murmur into her ear, "is my home."

The grate comes into view, and with the oar I press into one of the underwater switches that lifts it. Loud drops of water fall from each bar in the grate as it rises, and white reams of light cast themselves in every direction against the protruding stone. I manoeuvre the gondola into the narrow pass until we at last encounter the vast expanse of lake that breaches at the foot of my house.

"Oh!" Madame's voice is sharp and breathless, and her hand comes to her chest as she finally beholds the cavern I discovered in my first year at the Opera Populaire, and the dwelling I made of it in my second. I push the gondola through the misty lake toward the shore. Everything here radiates of an ageless and ancient aura. Thick drapes and untouched gold and deep-rooted stone and stained glass and petrified wood, with a heavy airborne aroma of jasper and smoke and the sweet, dark scent of fresh and dead roses. The only sounds are those thrown unnaturally against the walls, borne of the water slapping against the shore, and the unexplainable echoes of music long-since played and screams long-since silenced. And everywhere, I note with pride—Christine. Colour-drenched painted likenesses of dancing, framed in gold, or black and white pencilled images of slumber, scattered with deep red petals. Highlighted by flickering candlelight or cloaked in artful shadow, my precious ingénue both smiles and broods back at us in every direction.

The gondola bumps against the stone. I ease it to a gentle pause, and swiftly leave it, taking the ballet mistress with me. Her wide gape explores every detail, every corner and every shadow, in her awe. She breathes deeply. I approach my most recent drawing of Christine and lift it reverently at the edges. Her wide doe-eyes stare into the distance, the little birthmark at her cheek nearly disappears into her dimples. My lips part in the briefest smile of chaste adoration before a sudden and equally unwanted ache springs into the deepest region of my body. I close my eyes furiously and lay the picture back down, demanding my thoughts to refocus.

It works.

It has been years since I've had the need to force this part of my mind into submission, and finally I am remembering how I once did it. It is a process that became routine within the first years of my slow and deliberate detachment from the woman who now stands in my home. It is physical, mental, and spiritual. By removing myself from the temptation, I am exempt from falling victim to it and therefore suffering the guilt that obediently follows. There are always times, of course, when a simple redirecting of thought and sight do not suffice—those times, I am inclined to physically punish myself. Physical pain, while minor when compared to emotional pain, is often enough of a distraction to keep my thoughts at bay. Holding my breath until my lungs beg for relief, or bruising my wrists against a solid slab of stone; sometimes, a small cut to an inconspicuous place on my body, if it becomes intense enough. It is not often that my human lust will fight to such a drastic extent, but when it does, I am determined to smother it. I cannot allow such emotions. It is far too dangerous.

Fortunately, my sudden desire for Christine fades with only the resolute efforts of my mind. I dread knowing that such desires will return to me in the future, with greater fervour, and I will again someday resort to damaging my physical self to tame my mental self. But for now, I am safe.

"You have lived here for years, then," comes Madame's voice.

I open my eyes and round to face her.

Her mouth has fairly dropped, and her head shakes in incredulity. "I don't even know…what to _think_." She surveys the room shakily once more before coming back to look at me. It is clear that she has great difficulty speaking. "All of this time…all of these years…you have been creating your music within another of your creations. _This_." Visibly she trembles, and half of my mouth turns up in a smile. Her hands come around her forme, and she fights off a shiver. "How did you do this?"

I move toward her, past her, my legs taking me up the steps toward my organ. My hand rests on it deferentially. "Surely you didn't think I only _hoarded_ my money, away from the world and its resources." I turn to her, smiling. "I may be apart from humankind, but _I_ _do_…know how to use it to my advantage." My hand flays gracefully out in front of me, motioning to each piece of furniture. "Of course, I have taken liberty with some abandoned props from long-ago dead performances. But some of what you see here," and I glance sideways at my organ, "is the honest merchandise spared by my hard-earned salary and fine-tuned by my natural gifts. Such things are not available for my taking even within this Opera. Each of my instruments have been bought in _excellent_ condition, only to be _perfected_ by my sensitive ear and talented hand. With the exception," I admit, "of Gustave's violin."

She seems entirely unfazed by my light attitude toward the thievery. I believe this is a good sign. Her eyes wander up the great pipes towering over the organ, and higher up, to the ceiling and the natural vents. "Then this is where the unearthly playing originates."

My arms are crossed. I nod.

Madame Giry cautiously approaches me. "Even five storeys below the opera house—even five storeys above this lake, the music you compose still reaches us, and frightens…my students."

I am significantly curious. "Does it frighten you?"

She responds with a chilled shiver and a deep breath.

I am not only curious, but twisted, and nearly smiling because of it. I turn to the organ again and sit before it, removing my gloves so I can feel the cool ivory beneath the tips of my fingers. My hands rest atop the keys, and gently I press into them. The ethereal attack of music soars upward into the immense space above us in one long chord. A ghostly tumble of five consequent minor triads ensues it, and I hold the last chord before bringing the abridged scale up again. It is, I note with a powerful ardor of supremacy, the signature aria of the Opera Ghost's reign, and without seeing their faces I can feel the terror it strikes into every one of the residents' hearts now and _every_ _time_ I play it. I continue to grind into the keys, and the familiar melody proceeds to haunt both the bowels and the heart of the opera house, with Madame Giry struggling to maintain herself wordlessly behind me.

My hands stills as the song courses to its end. I let the acoustics carry the lingering music upward. The hairs that grace the back of my neck stand on end as a wave of chills passes through me. Smoothly I turn in my seat to face Madame; she is clutching the candelabra and blinking furiously. I observe her with great interest, until finally she regains control of her eyelids and meets my gaze.

"Christine…Christine is the only one who does not fear the Opera Ghost," says she. I can nearly feel her wild heartbeat.

"Christine fears only her Angel," I return, "and trusts him, and his promise to protect her from _O.G._"

Madame steadies herself at last, and looks about her again. "I cannot begin to tell you what a contradiction that is…but you know it, don't you?" She does not look at me, but turns around entirely, still hugging her arms, and takes two wondrous steps. "You know all. You understand on a level greater than anything I can fathom." A deep, shuddering breath, and I study her black forme against my dark and golden house. "I will not pretend to grasp it. I have no choice, after seeing this…I have no _choice_ but to trust you."

A pleasant gratification settles about me. Her response to my lair does not disappoint. If only I had brought her to this place long ago.

"What will you do with her?"

I study her back. "I will fulfil her father's promise. Do not doubt what I have done with her already; even today her talent exceeds, and her readiness trails just behind, the greatest names in this art. I have transformed her from a hopeless child and an _even_ more hopeless ballerina into a soprano worthy of my music, and soon I will transform this Opera by placing her in the limelight where she belongs."

She fingers a painting of Christine, and I smile in pride for a second's time before I sense the rigidity in her shoulders. I stand, indignant and unsure as to what such a stance implies. Before I can speak, though, she says, "You have…hundreds of these."

I say nothing. I have more.

"I cannot deny that I still fear for her…well-being," she admits boldly, and finally rounds to face me again. "I have known your obsession intimately, and it alarms me that you have become so—"

"Obsession is wrong, Madame Giry," I correct her, and with two simple strides I am beside her, taking the picture from her hands. I smile lovingly at it, and before setting it down, I glare at her from the corner of my eye. "I am _her_ obsession; therefore, she is the reason I exist. She is my purpose."

Madame's eyes drop, and she nods sullenly. "Please…for my sake…swear once more that you know what it is you are doing, and I will never question you again."

I no longer owe anything to her, regardless of my words to her only less than an hour before. I am not anymore who I was when we stood in her flat. But instead of tiring myself by reminding her, I oblige. "You have the word of the Phantom."

This does nothing to calm her. She implores me again, pleadingly.

I sigh, and fold my arms. "Whom else would you have me swear by?"

And she understands this, and nods her solemn head.

My senses hone in at once on the long, shrill, indignant wail that I recognise, even five storeys below, as Carlotta's. I raise my eyes in the direction of the opera house and beneath my mask I can feel the corner of my mouth lift in an eagre smile.

Madame also glances at the ceiling. "What was that?"

I refuse to miss the escapade of this moment, and neither will I let Madame Giry. I walk quickly down the steps and toward the gondola. Madame's light feet follow me. I move aside and allow her to entre before me, only smiling at her inquiring glare. Reluctantly she steps into the black vessel, and as we slice through the fog-dusted lake she stares behind my cloak at the glittering domain, drinking it in desperately before it passes from sight.


	29. Italian pigs and perfume

**Lefevre**

I jumped from my seat at the sound. Signor Morelli and the other agent—I couldn't quite remember his name—swivelled in their seats to look at the door.

"What on Earth—" began the second.

"Signora Giudicelli," gasped Morelli, and the three of us leapt at the door, promptly smacking into one another, before scrambling out in single file toward the horrible screams.

We were clearly not alone in our shock and curiosity. Around us, maids and stagehands and dozens of performers had emerged from their respective rooms and duties to discover what was the cause of such a racket. "Follow me," I murmured to the two Italians, who nodded brusquely. We tried inconspicuously to make our way backstage of the auditorium, but at the first sight of their manager, the residents and employees of the theatre gathered to follow us.

"Blast," I muttered.

The wails sharpened, and beneath them I could hear a desperate masculine string of Italian pleas. I was truly beginning to despise foreigners and drama of any sort! The hollow footsteps of dozens of inquiring feet clapped on the wooden floor backstage. The corridors were a bit narrower; perhaps that would deter them.

It didn't.

I finally stopped and turned around to face the mob…some were dressed in their nightclothes, others were covered in sawdust. "Ladies and gentlemen," I called over the noise, and they settled a little to listen to me. "Resume your stations, or back to your flats, at once."

A few departed to do as I had asked, but most remained. I cursed. Even as the manager, I did not have authority here.

Carlotta's dressing room came into view. The door hung open; inside I could see her in her elaborate blue frills and unnatural yellow hair, tears smudging through the rouge on her cheeks.

La Carlotta was standing on top of her dresser.

Beneath her was a portly, olive man with a refined black goatee—typical of Italians. His hands reached for her, imploring her to come down, but she spat curses at him and bawled. It was not that sight that dropped my mouth, however. Bottles had been knocked over and crushed, makeup smeared and dresses trampled, and much of the furniture had been overturned and the pictures hung sideways on the walls. The dressing room was positively in shambles and reeked of spilt perfume. Spilt perfume and…what was that? It smelt of…good Heavens, it smelt of….

"_Maiale!_" squealed the diva, pointing at the closet.

Through the murmurs and questions of the mob behind me, the whimpers and screeches of Signora Giudicelli, and the desperate pleas of the Italian below her, I could hear muffled grunts, distinct in nature. It couldn't be! I reached behind me and grabbed at the collars of two stagehands, directing them toward the closet. Silence—even from Carlotta. Had I been in a less stressful state, I would have thought to savour the rarity of such a moment.

Hesitantly the stagehands moved toward the closet, and the grunts from within stilled. I held my breath.

The stagehands pulled the doors apart, and bounding out of it came a frenzied white _pig_, snorting and squealing, toward us. Ladies' screams and men's shouts followed, and I cried out, flinging myself out of the hog's path. What in Heaven's name was a bloody _pig_ there for? It scampered destructively about the room, trampling the clutter on the floor, and something like a cape fluttered behind it. Human bodies tossed themselves in every direction to escape the path of the huge, angry pig, and someone meanwhile threw himself at the dresser atop which Carlotta stood.

She screamed as she tumbled from its rocking surface.

The hog changed directions immediately as soon as it caught sight of the open door. It charged through the frantically parting crowd, and dozens of pairs of crazed eyes followed it as it ran noisily through the corridor—straight into the path of Madame Giry herself.

"Look out!" someone cried.

Madame's face contorted with shock, and then fury. She stepped aside and plunged her hands into its flight, as we looked on in horror. The hog, however, continued and vanished around a corner, squealing all the way. Left entangled in the ballet mistress's hands was its makeshift cape.

Four men took off after the pig, shouting to and fro between them, and their echoes settled back in the corridor long after they had disappeared.

People slowly began to pick themselves up off the floor as Madame Giry studied the cape, and walked gracefully, purposefully, toward us without removing her eyes from it. Murmurs rose from those who tried to determine what it was she was holding. She stopped directly in front of me, and I stood from my crouched position beside the divan. Madame Giry's hands beheld the cape before my eyes, and for all to see.

It was the Italian flag!

A collective gasp went up, and I straightened my shoulders, taking the flag from her, avoiding her hard gaze. I held it up into the light, and my eyes surveyed the red words that were written atop the threadwork. _Familiar_ red etchings. A knot of fear and resentment twisted in my gut, and I read the words aloud.

"_Are you humbled yet, Signora?_"

Frightened whispers filtered through the crowd, and the Italian diva burst into another onslaught of tears—no doubt half for show, as she adored attention. I turned to her and glanced about the room once more. My eyes rested on that which I looked for: a red rose, tied with a black ribbon, trampled into the rug by the hooves of his _practical joke_. My gaze drew others, and the voice of a little ballerina trilled: "It's from him, it's from the Phantom of the Opera!"

A cry of little female voices rose, and I heard Madame Giry's sternness above them. "Hush, girls! Prepare yourselves immediately for bed! Marguerite Giry, I will see you in my _quarters_."

My hands shook, and my brow was tightly knitted. I crammed the flag into a tiny, compact ball, grunting like the _pig_ himself, and tossed it aside. The male Italian beside Carlotta huffed at me indignantly as _she_ brushed her elaborate self off—as if it was my fault! I turned to them, searching my intelligence desperately for an explanation or an apology, but nothing came.

"_Ubaldo!_" shrilled the soprano. "_Pigri, idiot, Ubaldo, i miei vestitos!_"

"Monsieur," said the nameless agent behind me shakily. "Allow me to introduce you to Signor Ubaldo Piangi." He glanced at the kempt, portly man briefly, and then back at me. "Well…are we still up for an audition, then?"

"Who is responsible for this?" exclaimed the tenor, motioning widely with his hands at the chaotic mess around him. Though his Italian accent was still clear, at least his _enunciation_ was correct.

Carlotta's lined lips formed a pout, and she crossed her arms.

"Signor, Signora," I said, glancing about me, "I apologise…clearly we have been vandalised."

A great, sarcastic huff burst forth from both of them. "Someone dare call _me_ Italian _Pig_," shouted Giudicelli. "I not put up with dis, _no!_" She proceeded to send icy glares to everyone in the room, and pointed at us. "One ahv _you_ do dis, you all jealous _no_bahdies!"

"It wasn't us," a chorus boy piped up. "It was the Phantom!"

A dozen hushes attacked him.

"Who is this Phantom, Monsieur?" enquired Signor Morelli.

I glared at the chorus boy, and averted my gaze to the agent. "No one, of course, just a superstition of theirs…" and I gave a little laugh, clapping the agents on their backs and leading them from the dressing room. I motioned for the two singers to follow, and ordered the service to clean the room and the seamstresses to repair Carlotta's dresses. They assumed their roles without complaint.

I caught Madame Giry's disapproving eye before she brusquely turned and departed from our presence. Blasted woman. I never did _anything_ to her.

**Christine**

I listened from my bed as Meg recounted the whole storey to the girls who had not been present. Of course, she added a few of her own embellishments and swore that she had seen him in the shadows of the dressing room, but I said nothing. Instead I smiled, shaking my head at her giddiness.

It _was_ rather funny to see the snobbish Italian in such a state. I couldn't help but feel a little jealousy toward her; I had always dreamt of being the lead soprano at the Populaire, but my dream had not yet been granted. He still wanted me to keep my talent in the darkness and sing only for him. Certainly, he was a better audience than all the theatre-goers in the world, but secretly I couldn't _wait_ until he found that I was ready to perform for them at last.

I fiddled with the lace on my nightgown.

"And then Maman became terribly upset with me for revealing who was responsible," lamented Meg to the eagre circle of ballerinas. She brightened just as quickly, and her blonde braid bounced behind her. "But do you know what she told me?" The girls leant in, greedy for another piece of gossip. Meg lowered her voice deliberately before continuing. "She said that O.G. despises La Carlotta and the mess he made was an attempt to scare her off!"

I broke into a grin. Meg had told me what her mother had said, and it wasn't quite that…she had merely warned Meg and suggested that the Phantom wasn't pleased with the Italian's self-importance, and proceeded to give her a lesson in humility.

"But why on Earth would he not like her? She's gorgeous!"

"And she has the widest range I've ever heard!"

A third girl chimed in, "Or the shrillest."

Out broke a quiet argument over the talent that Carlotta Giudicelli had or didn't have. Myself, I was impressed with her voice. This was perhaps the one matter on which my Angel and I disagreed, though when I was with him I pretended to share his opinion as well. The few times I had mentioned her, his tone would gain a condescending air and he would instruct me to use her as an example of exactly how _not_ to sing. Of course he was right—he always was—but I still thought that her voice was unique and powerful for not ever having been tutored by an Angel. I heard all of her mistakes, yes, and shrillness and horrible glottal starts were some of them, but it was evident that beneath such flamboyant show was a pretty soprano voice that _could_ be perfect, if she had the right teacher.

Once I had even said to the Angel, "If she wasn't so pompous in flaunting her instrument, she would sound much better."

He had responded by saying that the world would never know.

I chose my moment to step into the conversation, and repeated my words to the Angel for the benefit of those in the room.

All eyes turned on me, and Lisette lifted a pencilled-in eyebrow in a lofty glance, and a bit of a smirk formed on the fullest lips I had ever seen. "Since when does Christine know _anything_ about music?"

Lisette was a member of the chorus as well as the _ballet de cour_. She was secretly a hopeful for the merited spot of leading alto, which we had none, and had vied to no avail for the mezzo soprano role as one of the Three Ladies in the upcoming production of _Die Zauberflöte_. She was far too young, and only a chorus girl, no matter how pretty her alto voice was. The Angel had told me that I could easily sing the role of the mezzo, for my voice had the warmth and richness and "roundness" required for such a role. It wasn't meant to be, however; I was to be the Populaire's soprano, he was intent on it. It was my range that he was currently expanding, and my ability to maintain vibrato whilst singing such high notes. My thoughts briefly returned to the evening's lesson, which he had abruptly ended. I wanted to know _so badly_ what I had done wrong that would make him act in such a way. If only he didn't become irritated when I questioned him….

The few candles that were lit wavered. The other girls had become silent, for different reasons, at Lisette's snide remark. She didn't know that I possessed an instrument more powerful than anything her slender throat and full lips could produce. But she was envious of my high-class dressing room, and she had heard storeys of how I would sing to my father's violin concerts, and we would travel all the way around France so people could hear us perform. It was obvious to me, and I believed to everyone else, that she enjoyed parading her talent in my face as a reminder that I would never have that fame again.

She was not the only one, of course. I had few friends amongst residents of the ballet dormitories, but I supposed that was my own fault. I did not approach them or make any effort to forme friendships, but my Angel had often encouraged me to distance myself as much as possible from them. Most were sympathetic, granting my shyness to the loss of my father so many years ago, but I was not the most talented ballerina and I held up our lessons often; that caused for annoyance, and many of the others disliked me for it. Some, like Lisette, were jealous of the dressing room my Angel had given me. And many were put off from the first month I'd arrived at my assurance that an Angel of music would visit me and tutor me…they would whisper cruel things at me for believing that I would be privileged above them to receive such a heavenly suitor.

I supposed I should have kept my mouth shut during that month, and kept my father's promise to myself. But I was a child, and I did not yet understand that the Angel was meant to be a secret.

I smiled sheepishly. "I suppose I just love music…that's all."

Meg immediately came to my rescue. "Christine went all over the country when she was a little girl! Her father was famous for his violin playing, and she was—"

"Meg, we all know about Gustave Daae and his little soprano," Evie cut in, and a few giggles bubbled through the circle. I put a hand on Meg's arm and sent her a grateful smile through a cautious warning glance. She nodded discreetly, and quickly changed the topic so that the girls would lose interest in me.

I listened with half an ear and turned on my side, my cheek hot against the pillow. The Angel was always so imperative when it came to my sleep—he said rest was crucial to performance. I once asked him if he ever slept; he said Angels do not sleep, but he assured that he watched over me in my dreams. Often times I would awaken in the middle of the night from a fearful dream, and just above a whisper I could hear him, in my half-conscious state, sing me lullabies. I smiled at the thought of him being with me as I slept, and closed my eyes.

A sudden _clomp_ sounded from above us, or beside us, and then another. The girls quieted, and one of them tittered. I opened my eyes as the noises continued. A few girls looked around nervously, and one asked into the open, "What is that?"

"It's Joseph Buquet," said another. "He's drunk, and he's running into things."

The noises ceased for a moment, and then an extra-loud crash sounded. The ballerinas moved closer together.

Meg's hazel eyes were wide at the ceiling. "Where is it coming from?"

We listened with bated breath as the sounds continued—first from beneath us, and then from the far right wall, and then from the rafters. It wasn't distinct where they were coming from…but they were progressively getting louder. I shivered, and my fingers clutched my blanket.

The noises stilled once more, and after a few seconds I let out my breath, hearing others do so at the same time. Without warning, the mirror rattled in its frame, and our reflections were dizzied within it. A great frightened gasp went up, mine amongst them, and Meg whispered loudly, "It's the Ghost!"

The faint candlelight that glowed throughout the room flickered, and with a sudden, airy _whoosh_ the flames extended horizontally and vanished within curling streams of smoke. Only the starlight filtered through the window, and with its faint luminosity I could clearly see the frightened faces of each girl in the room. Where was my Angel? I tugged at a curl nervously and brought the other hand to my mouth, chewing on my knuckle…remembering the night's lesson and his rapid departure from my presence.

Meg jumped on my bed and clutched at my arm.

"What will we do?" someone shrieked.

"Christine," Meg whispered, terrified.

"Don't worry, Meg," I tried to comfort her, but it didn't work, as I could not even comfort myself. Meg was absolutely intrigued by the Phantom when she was safe. Her fascination from a distance blinded her to the terror of his reign when he was near, and I felt it my duty to be brave for her—at least, I pretended to be. _I trust the Angel_, I chanted in my mind. _He promised to protect me, and I trust him._

As soon as the thoughts formed in my head, I was surrounded by peace; I could _feel_ him. He was there with me, in the room, and I could smell his unique scent of roses and ink and candles. The hairs on my neck stood on end, and I shivered happily. He was here, protecting me from the Opera Ghost, just as he always had—even after our short and confusing lesson, he had returned to protect me, and did not fail me. I closed my eyes and smiled, savouring his presence, and when I opened them again, Meg had furrowed her brow in confusion at my tranquil state.

A creaking noise and a bright flare blazed into the darkness, and I jumped; we all looked to where the light was coming from. Madame Giry had entered the room with a torch and a frustrated glare. "Little ones! You should all be asleep! How will you ever have the strength to practise tomorrow?"

The girls rose to their knees where they were all huddled on the floor, and I looked down, ashamed. A redhead stood anxiously. "But Madame! The Ghost just blew out all of our candles!"

Madame's eyes flicked to me, and then to Meg. "Meg, you _will_ not keep everyone up with your tales. In bed now, at once." She left us with a long, solemn glare, and the door closed.

The noises of several scampering feet and frightened murmurs sounded as each rushed to her own bed. Meg struck a candle to give everyone more light, and I settled down into my comforter once more.

A horrified gasp reached my ears, and I raised myself from the mattress abruptly to see what had happened.

Lisette stood at the side of her bed, her hands over her lips, and she backed away slowly. I sat up fully to see what was the cause of her fright, still comforted by the Angel's presence, and several others stood completely.

Scattered about Lisette's white sheets were dark red rose petals, and a lone green stem, tied with a crumpled black ribbon.


	30. Whiter still than chalk

**Madame Giry**

Rehearsals for _Die Zauberflöte_ were already underway. It was nearly a century old and had been performed a thousand times over, but with encouragement from the Opera Ghost, Lefevre had introduced it to the Populaire and instructed me to choreograph into it a few ballet numbers. Against the Phantom's wishes, he had assigned the lead role of the Queen to Signora Giudicelli. The soubrette assigned the role of Pamina had up and left, refusing to work under the obnoxiousness of La Carlotta's disposition.

True to her grandiose and selfish stylings, Carlotta insisted upon rehearsing for both the Queen _and _Pamina until a replacement soubrette was found.

Backstage my girls practised their _arrondis_ as the actors rehearsed their lines in the auditorium. More than once my brow furrowed in irritation at the obnoxiously loud Italian and the effect she was having on my students.

Carlotta's shrillness cut through the thick air behind the elaborate sets. "O such _martyr_dahm! Such pain-a!"

Bette and Agatha, the opera house's most jovial and curious middle-aged maids, giggled from their stations. The performer who played Monostatos responded: "Lost is your life!" I weaved in and out of my students' queues, observing them with a strict expression of critique and one hand on my chin.

"Death do not move-a me," wailed Carlotta. "Only ma _mather_ will mourn for me! She will die ahve grief cer-teen-_ly_."

"Signora, Signora," interrupted M Reyer through a loud tapping of his baton on the base of the stage. "I would remind you that Pamina says _does not_ instead of _do not_, as she is a well-spoken—"

"Maestro, you make _fun_ ahve me?" the diva yipped nasally. "I am not-a Pamina for long, and the Queen say however she likes!"

The girls tittered through their _arrondis_ and I released a sigh of exasperation. "Concentrate," I warned, and their mouths clamped over humoured grins. I was far too annoyed to be amused at the soprano's antics, and I was not about to let her ruin yet another valuable practise.

Christine's arms were not rounding the way they were meant to inside such a position. God-willing, she was surely a better singer than she was a dancer. She would have to be, the way he praised her in my presence. I approached her from behind and held her in the proper stance, my hands clutching her forearms. "Like this, Miss Daae," I instructed, and I felt her muscles tense beneath me. She was so terribly frightened of criticism, I wondered how she ever made it through one of his lessons.

Then again, perhaps he was the reason she was so frightened of disapproval.

"Yes, Madame," she responded, but her arms began to tremble with her efforts, and she stumbled a bit.

I released her and turned her around, well aware of the other girls' eyes on both of us. "Have you even been practising on your own time?"

Her head hung slightly, and she lowered her eyes. "No, Madame." Her shoulders drooped, and I snapped my fingers; she straightened, and looked me in the eye. "He doesn't give me much time for anything else."

She said the last part in a whisper, which only attracted more stares. I turned from her and clapped my hands, and the ballerinas resumed position. I met Christine's eyes again. "You should remind him that you have responsibilities other than his own indulgences," I murmured.

Her brown eyes widened a bit, and she shook her head. "Oh, no. It isn't for his sake at all that he challenges me…I ask him to."

I gave her a hard stare. "Then it is you who needs reminding. Come now—continue your stretches."

Christine nodded and blew a stray curl from the pale skin of her young face.

The rehearsal had resumed. The actor who would play Papageno recited, "Pretty girl, young and fine…much whiter still than chalk."

I smiled as I turned from her at the character's words, and my thoughts, as they often did, found a place thinking about the Phantom. I reminded myself to trust him—to trust the apparition who swore his indifference and therefore his honour. His sudden revelation of lust for the pretty girl, whiter than chalk, and his equally sudden promise to never view her in an unholy way again, attacked my mind.

"Huh!" called Papageno and Monostatos in unison. "That is the Devil, certainly."

…

**The Phantom**

I pace about the top of the rafters, my hands behind my back. I wear no cloak, but I am dressed fully in black, and the mask I wear is also black—I will not be seen unless one looks specifically for me. Staring down at the wide stage and the colourful wooden sets, I smile; and then my gaze settles on Carlotta.

Her horrible blonde wig is piled high above her head. It is nearly large enough to fit her ego. My manager has annoyingly not taken my distaste for her seriously, and the caped hog did nothing but insult her pride. It is time that my subtle hints intensify in their efforts. A wicked grin creeps into my features.

Carlotta's cheekbones raise as her mouth widens, and she inhales loudly and sharply before singing her duet as Pamina with Papageno. It is blasphemy. A dramatic coloratura squeezing her voice into a soubrette role is offensive even to God. But Carlotta will miss no chance to prove her vocal…flexibility.

"_What joy is indeed greater!_"

I cringe at the offensive sound as I study the overhanging pulleys above. Is it even possible that she makes me despise _Die Zauberflöte?_ I secure a rose to one of the rigs with a long black satin ribbon, just above the hook, and lower myself swiftly down the length of a sturdy rope between the gigantic red curtains, a return cord in hand.

"_What a luck if I found him!_"

On cue, Monostatos makes his ominous entrance, entirely transforming their gay and love-dizzied tune to mournful grief.

"_Ah, now it's all over for us!_"

A series of unsure lyrical spouts of unmatched melodies erupt from the frantic chorus as each singer ludicrously attempts different lines of the necessary musical commentary intended for such a scene.

"_O, friend, now we are done for_…."

"No truer words have been spoken," I murmur through my hot breath, though I realise if she was not humiliated enough by the "Italian" pig, ridding myself of her may not be as easy of a task as I thought.

Still hidden within the curtain, I aim the rig directly into Carlotta's path, and with a great tug on the cords, I release it. The rope above the stage comes loose and the heavy hook at its end swings faithfully toward the diva. It would be pleasant if it hit her evenly in the face, but that is not my intention. Instead, it performs exactly as I mean it to; the roped iron dips directly into centre stage, and lodges in her elaborate yellow wig like a hook in the mouth of a fish. At the impact, Carlotta screams and is knocked backward; her wig tears from her foreign head and continues into the rig's flight.

My mouth opens in a triumphant grin as more screams accompany hers, but instantly I harden as I see the diva sprawled on the floor; she is not bald underneath at all. Instead, her dark brown hair is pleated and pinned beneath a white cloth. I curse and whip around, disappointed and terribly angered at such a failure, and my mind circles around new, more frightening plots as I move soundlessly through the curtains and into a dark corridor. My blood boils even as I hear the frightened echoes of the onlookers who have discovered my rose attached to the rig.


	31. A child must cry

**Christine**

The necklace was beautiful—slender, braided silver chains and tiny pearls at their ends hung from its crest. I clasped it around my neck, and raised my chin to the ceiling so he could see it clearly against my throat.

"It suits you, Christine."

I stared at my reflection in the mirror, very sophisticated in such a piece of jewellery, and grinned in my gratitude. I could not ask him how he had obtained it for me; I could only trust it was a gift from Heaven, I supposed. "I am so happy to hear you," I ventured, unsure if it was wise to bring up the fact that he was twenty minutes late for our lesson—an unusual circumstance.

"Did you fear you would not?"

I could feel him smile as he responded, and I breathed in silent relief that my statement did not anger him.

"_Little Christine, such needless worries_

"_I'll never forsake you!_

"_Haven't I promised I'd be with you_

"_Even through these trials?_"

I shrugged, still with a delicate, gentle expression about my features, and changed keys slightly.

"_Angel, I always fear your absence_

"_Still, though my faith strengthens!_"

His voice rose from the floor to the ceiling as he interjected, "_Where was your faith when you doubted?_"

"_Doubt having fled, I ask for patience_," I continued, "_guidance and compassion_."

My heart pounded loudly, eagerly, at the brief duet—it still unnerved and excited me that he always seemed to know just what I was about to sing so he could match his own harmony to it.

"_Even last night as I watched you_

"_Holding you safe from your fear_

"_You felt my presence within you_

"_And knew I was near_."

I shivered at the sincerity of his words, as he reminded me again and again of his promise. A promise very, very similar to the one my father had given me just after his symptoms surfaced: "I will always be within you; I will always be near." I opened my mouth to reply, but just as soon I felt my face crumple, and a sudden wave of tears flooded my vision.

The violin ceased, and his stiff, impatient silence spoke volumes.

I shook my head, silently cursing my tears. "I know I am not supposed to cry," I said, blinking furiously. "I'm sorry—I'm sorry, please forgive me."

"Tell me why you are crying."

I couldn't—if I did he would become angry with me. He did not let me cry for my father, and I couldn't bear to hear him admonish me for it again. I sucked at my bottom lip, desperately trying to compose myself, and swept my queue of curls back behind my head. "Madame is upset with me because I am not dancing as well as I should be…" I said truthfully, "which I deserve, I understand, but with the production nearing I feel so utterly helpless under so much stress." It began truthfully; then I was lying through my teeth. I held my breath, anxiously.

"You are telling me that I push you too hard?"

I could detect irritation in his voice, and I rushed to mend it. "Of course not! There _is_ nothing I'd rather do than sing, and especially for you! It is the ballet training that distresses me, not our lessons…our lessons put me at ease."

His voice was still hard. "They are not meant to put you at ease. Clearly I am not challenging you to the extent that I should."

"Our exercises do challenge me, Master," I said quickly, "but our lessons—the time I spend with you, that is—gives me such, such _peace_." My mind screamed at my tear ducts to cease functioning. "Please…I do not want to fail you."

At last, the Angel softened. I had come to learn how to handle my Angel at times…as good as I was at frustrating him, I was also becoming very good at taming his temper. "You could never fail me, Christine. You may remind your ballet mistress that you have you have responsibilities other than _her_ own indulgences."

I tried to smile as I recognised the words. "You were listening, then."

"I am always watching you."

I nodded, aware that my tears were obediently drying, though they still remained dormant in my throat.

Due to his tardiness, our lesson was over quickly; however, I did exceptionally well. It frightened me a little how an emotion such as fear or sorrow seemed to inspire me musically—unseen tears could accompany my song as well as any instrument. It having been such a successful lesson, and having a great deal of confidence in my voice, a thought struck me. Before his departure, I asked him one question: "What will happen to _Die Zauberflöte_ if the Opera Ghost scares Carlotta away?"

He was silent for a moment, as if thinking. "The chorus is full of sopranos who are just talented enough—in the manager's eyes, at least—to merit such a role. If Signora Giudicelli is not able to fulfil her duty as the Queen, there are plenty of opportunities for an understudy."

I ventured one more: "And Pamina? What if they cannot find a replacement?"

"Do not suffer the matter, Christine. It is even easier to find a soubrette than a dramatic."

My smile remained on my face, but my heart crashed. He still did not think me ready. I nodded, but could not find any words due to this disappointment and the earlier sadness that had not absconded me. Reluctantly I left for supper, determined to eat quickly so I could visit the chapel.

…

**Meg**

Christine sat beside me as our steaming plates were brought to us. I smiled at her and looked at the meal: lopsided ham and boiled eggs and carrots. I made a face in disgust, and Christine grinned at my reaction.

"You know," I said, "Etienne was just here."

"Did you talk?" she asked, smiling knowingly.

I shook my head. He had been looking for Christine, but I certainly did not want to bring that up. "He was speaking with Maman, and then he had to leave."

Christine opened her mouth to say something, but Maman quieted us for prayer. Obediently we bowed our heads and closed our eyes. I was always restless throughout prayers; Christine, on the other hand, was always reverent, and always peaceful. I snuck a glance at her through one eye. Her face was normally so content when we prayed, but now she looked sad; her eyelashes fluttered, and I thought I saw a tear glisten.

"Amen," we echoed hollowly, and grabbed our forks.

Christine stared down at her plate. I nudged her. "Are you all right?"

She nodded, and attempted a smile. "I'm fine."

She never did tell me what was bothering her. I suspected it was her father, but if she wanted not to talk about it, I did not want to bring it up. Maman told me once that she was ashamed whenever she still missed him. I didn't understand that, but perhaps she thought it stupid that after all these years she was still sad.

I poked at the eggs with my fork. I couldn't remember my father at all. He had died when I was only a baby. I did not even remember what he looked like, but Maman's pictures of him were very handsome. He was blonde, like me. In a way, I was glad I was so young when he died; if I had been older, as Christine was, I would probably have turned out like her—sad, and distant, and shy. Except, of course, when she wanted to do something dangerous, or sneaky. Then she could be bolder than any of us—though I was the only one who knew of her hidden courage. But if she wasn't doing something that thrilled her, she was a different person entirely. Christine was my best friend in the whole world, but it must be utterly exhausting to live like that!

And yet, Etienne seemed to find her intriguing. He himself was amazing—a member of both the chorus and the ballet, just like Lisette. Perhaps he had heard that Christine was once a singer, and _that_ was what intrigued him. I had prided myself on the fact that I was the only person who knew just how wonderful Christine was, and I didn't want to share her with anyone, _especially_ not him.

I could sing too, after all.

Christine had hardly touched her food when she stood and took her plate to the kitchens. My eyes followed her as I chewed thoughtlessly on my ham. She threw me a smile before leaving the dining hall. Where on earth did she always go to? Early mornings and before supper she always went off alone…"practising," she said, because she was so behind. Several times I offered to help her, but she declined; I think perhaps she might have been jealous of my talent as a ballerina.

I shook my head, and an annoying thought came to my mind that I was thinking unfavourably of her because of Etienne. But I forced it away just as quickly, calling myself paranoid. I wasn't jealous of her at all. Etienne probably didn't fancy her the way I sometimes thought he did…and at any rate, she didn't fancy him, so I had nothing in the world to be jealous of.

…

**Madame Giry**

I noticed Christine leave supper early, and I rose to follow her, with every intent in mind to chastise her for not asking to be excused. I held back in the shadows, however, as she turned in the direction of the chapel, and nodded silently at her back. I would not let mere propriety get in the way of her lessons.

Just as quickly, I furrowed my brow. It was not a lesson; it couldn't have been. Her lessons were prior to morning practise and directly before supper. I followed her inconspicuously, wondering at her purpose. I had never heard her sing before, and my curiosity at what he'd done with her voice had led me more than once to eavesdrop on her lessons—or _try_ to at least. But the Phantom had fashioned a soundproof door into the entrance of the chapel, and I had always taken the hour before supper to personally tutor Meg and her dancing.

Now, perhaps, would be my perfect opportunity. If it was not a lesson, she would not close the door. I did not know for sure that she would sing…but I was willing to listen, just in case.

The shadows hid me well enough as I stood on the steps of the chapel. I heard the warm hiss of a flame coming to life, and movement. There was silence for a long time, and I realised that perhaps she had only come to light a candle for her father, and she would not be singing after all.

I turned to leave, bitterly disappointed. Instead, I nearly ran into him, and I stifled a sharp gasp with my fist. He pursed his lips and stared down at me quizzically. Without a word, he moved to the wall opposite me, and leant against it, listening as well. I watched him and stayed rooted to the spot.

After a few moments, I received the distinct impression that she was not going to speak her prayers aloud.

As I made mind to depart, the Phantom moved around behind me. His determined, husky words came to my ear. "Go to her. Ask her what is troubling her spirit, and I will be listening."

I nodded brusquely and entered the chapel. Christine looked up at me, and her reddened eyes met my own. She stood and breathed heavily. "I didn't mean to leave early…but I just—"

I quieted her and took her hands. "Tell me what is wrong."

Her eyes flicked to the ceiling, and she shook her head.

I pursed my lips and blinked deliberately. "Why can't you tell me, Miss Daae?"

Her gaze fell to the floor. "I am not supposed to be sad," she whispered.

Indignation filled me, and I spoke loudly, for his benefit, while touching her cheek. "Don't you ever let him dictate your emotions." She stared at me, frightened. "If you miss your father, you have every right to."

She shook her head, silently begging me to stop. "He'll hear you," she mouthed, and she shuddered, rubbing the goose bumps from her arm, as she glanced around the walls. I sighed—he haunted her, and she knew it. "He is always watching me," she murmured, her voice trembling.

"I do not care if he hears me, and I do not care if he is watching," I assured her. "Sometimes even Angels need reprimanding."

Christine smiled a little. "It is only because he does not want me to feel sorrow—he worries for my happiness."

"Then he needs to learn that sorrow is akin to joy," I continued. "One cannot be without the other, and it will do you no good to keep your sadness hidden." My anger at him was not for Christine's sake alone—I was furious because he had done the same thing to me, and I no longer knew how to cry. But I would not let that happen to Christine, the way it had to me.

She nodded, finally, and I led her to the great window of stained glass. We sat beneath it, and she took a deep breath. "I suppose I feel guilty," she admitted.

I squeezed her hand in encouragement.

"It's really a whole stupid mess," she laughed a little, "and I just suddenly feel, with some of the things that have happened…I'm not sure, actually. But though he tells me often that I please him, I _know_ I am failing somehow, because I am still not ready to perform." Her eyes fell to the base of the stained glass. "It isn't that I am impatient, but it brings back so many old feelings…you see, when Father lost his voice, he still wanted me to sing, even without him." She met my gaze again, and tears again began to forme in her round brown eyes. "But as his illness worsened, I could hardly sing at all. While he could still play the violin, people would come to hear us, but not as many…when it was only me singing, it was not enough. The two of us singing together in our concerts was what they wanted to hear. We performed less and less, and I knew I had failed him. I wasn't good enough for our audiences."

Her voice had begun to waver, and she took a moment to collect herself.

"I wasn't good enough to bring in the money we needed to support us, even with his playing," she continued. "When he was too weak to play, I knew it was all over, and I told him that I was sorry that I couldn't save us. He told me never to blame myself, but I could not help it. I was so adamant that my voice should have been perfect, that I made him promise to send the Angel of Music, so that I one day could be." The muscles in Christine's face tightened. "Even on his deathbed, I would not let him forget that promise. He didn't forget, Madame Giry, but I have failed him again somehow. I should be ready, but I'm not."

I felt such sympathy for her. That incorrigible Angel! I hoped he was hearing everything she said. "You haven't failed anyone, Christine. Not the Angel, and most certainly not your father."

"Yes I did!" she assured. "He died and we hadn't even enough money for a proper funeral. He was so talented, he should have had a procession with the greatest musicians in the world!" She lowered her voice. "I'm sorry, Madame. I must not be making any sense. I suppose I have just kept this inside so long…."

Her voice trailed.

I squeezed her hands once more. "But think of his memory. Nearly everyone in France remembers the famous violinist Gustave Daae. And that legacy is far more of a tribute than any material thing."

She nodded, and forced a smile. "Thank you."

We left the chapel together, and I noticed, as she cast one last look into the holy room, that she was shaking. As much as she loved him, she was afraid of him. And he was a fool to instil such fear in her, and suppress her emotions the way he suppressed his own. I wished again, as I had for years, that I had the maternal authority to rebuke him for such a thing. I only hope he heard it in my voice as I spoke to his student.


	32. Trinkets and melodious rants

**The Phantom**

"_Gustave Daae would be satisfied_

"_That such a monument was granted his death_

"_Enclosed is everything I promised_

"_The correct sum that will cover all expenses_

"_To serve his mem'ry and to quote from Macbeth_:

"'_Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it'_

"_So therefore his grave will be given what only grandeur and esteem befit_."

My pen stills against the paper, and the feather tickles the corner of my mouth. Christine's father was cheated out of the fame he might have had, the glory he deserved, by an unexplainable sickness and an untimely death. The few days he might have had, had I not ended him first, would have made no difference in the sudden and unfair obscurity of his life. He died a poor violinist with no family, and was given a nondescript plot in a picturesque but obscure division of the cemetery. Until now, such a thought has never occurred to me.

"Do not speak to Miss Daae of this renovation. She will learn in my timing." I consider the events of the past days once more, and Christine's suggestion that without Carlotta we may have no replacement, comes to mind. "I advise you to employ an understudy for the role of Pamina, in the event that the worst should happen and our resident pelican cannot perform. You would please me to consider Jacqueline d'Bram, whose voice is far more tolerable—Monsieur Reyer can conduct in a lower key, one more fitting for Jacqueline's range. I ask that you remind Madame Giry that her expertise is in ballet, and not the personal affairs of phantoms and Angels. Again, my good manager, you have my humble regards. With utmost gratitude," I pen and voice aloud, "O.G."

Madame is a very brave, and very strong, human being. I know exactly that her reproof to the Angel in Christine's presence was meant for my ears. I fold the letter and the franc notes into an envelope and seal it. Perhaps this will appease her presumptuous self and prevent her from intruding further upon my business with Christine in the future.

The ominous seal grins back at me.

My impatience with Christine's tears still plagues me. It is a mystery to me why she insists that she has failed me, and especially why she still grieves her father. She has _me_. I have been both Father and Teacher—albeit more the latter than former—and have done more for her than Gustave ever could. What more does she need, until she is finally past mourning him? I can only be resolute that this accolade to her father's memory will give her the closure that she lacks. Then, perhaps her soul will finally be mine alone, and I will no longer have to share it with the spirit of her deceased father.

**Lefevre**

"How long must I be expected to deal with him?" I murmured, sulking in the auditorium's front row, and I held the brandy bottle to my head.

The great shrieking Italian was engaged in a furious confrontation with Reyer. Apparently she didn't _want_ an understudy. Jacqueline was standing off to the side with her support group, and on her face was a mixture of a smirk and a scowl. She had often starred in major roles in our productions, due to her pretty voice, but that had been before Carlotta had arrived and blown us all away with her astounding range. Now she was both eagre and humiliated to be given the chance at an understudy role. La Carlotta would have none of it, however.

"I stay! I not 'scared off' by your Ghost!"

"Signora, please, it is only in the event that, well, you fall ill and cannot—"

"Ah, no!" Carlotta shook both index fingers in his face. "I does not-a get seeck! I _never_ need undahstudy at La Bellezza, and I _never_ need one 'ere!"

Perhaps, the event of her getting a headache _would_ be agreeable. It would certainly spare _me_ one.

"You put far too much good faith in the powers that haunt this place," called a Jacqueline crony.

I had already given the money and the blueprints to the manufacturing team, after debating whether or not I should just keep it—after all, it was rightfully mine. But he would find out. It was the first time he'd actually given me money. Normally he expected me to pay out of what remained in my pocket, but then again, his demands always had something to do with the benefit of the opera house.

This request was of an entirely different nature.

The ballet mistress marched toward me. "What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, her eyes blazing. "My students cannot concentrate. You are the manager—do something."

"Oh, Madame Giry," I acknowledged, raising my bottle to salute her. "The Phantom has a message for you."

She folded her arms and eyed me quizzically.

"He wants you to know that your expertise is in ballet, and not meddling in the affairs of phantoms and Angels—whatever _that_ means."

She lifted her thin brows. "Is that so, Monsieur?"

I shrugged, and dangled the note above me. "It is. Yes, that is so. It says so right here." I cleared my throat and sang the first few lines to her, having learned his new blasted tune—not nearly as irritating as the first, but a bit grave nonetheless.

Giry snatched the note from my hands, but I had the little song memorised, and I continued to sing it and its irony in my high state as she read the words frantically. A look came over her eyes, one I couldn't read, but her voice had softened. "What does he have planned?"

"Apparently he wants Monsieur Daae's grave to be dug, and a shrine to be built into which his coffin will be placed. I don't know what it is about that little Daae girl, but he seems to have chosen her as his _muse_." I quoted the last two words with my fingers, and took a swig of brandy.

She gave me a sharp look.

"It's true," I slurred. "First the dressing room, and now her father's grave? What does he see in the little brat? She certainly can't dance."

Madame's hand swooped toward me, and I started and yelped, scrambling to sit straighter to avoid her blow. But it was my drink she aimed for. She yanked it from my grasp and sniffed the top, grimaced, and gave me back the note.

"It's my bottle I want back," I whined.

"I am aware," she said, and she proceeded to pour the contents into the nearest waste can at the side of the stage. She swiftly returned and arrogantly thrust the empty bottle in my face.

I growled at her, and swiped the remaining brandy from my moustache, before snatching the bottle away.

**Christine**

The curtains had closed on the opening night of _Die Zauberflöte._ The night before, Meg and I had slipped away from the crowds, which were larger than usual, it being the debut performance of La Carlotta Giudicelli.

It had also been mine, and Meg's, and every other student in the conservatory who had reached the age of thirteen—not to mention the older students, and the ballet veterans who had graduated from their training months and years before. But we were not the object of celebration for the night.

We were, however, the object of attention from many of the patrons and wealthy male theatre-goers who, though they were refined and gentlemanly on the outside, were pigs like Joseph Buquet within. Madame had never explained to me of the nature of men, but I had become somewhat informed by the gossip of the older ballet girls who were "experienced"…though I still wasn't quite sure I knew what that meant.

Madame Giry had instructed us to remove our costumes and prepare for bed at once. We did not argue—though we would have liked to remain for the party, the strange men and their inappropriate behaviour was a bit frightening.

It was the next morning, and Meg and I were still reeling from the excitement of the night before. We were scouring the boxes before the cleaning ladies were on duty, looking for any lost coins or trinkets. It was Meg's idea, but she was far too nervous to go through with it on her own. I was intrigued, and that was enough for her—she relied on me a great deal. I did try to be obedient in the important things, but Madame was at the market, and the golden boxes seemed to gleam in the afterglow.

"Look!" called Meg, and I peeked out of Box Nine. She was across the theatre in Box Four. "I've found a lady's comb!"

"Oh!" I left the box and skipped, however clumsily, on my dancer's feet throughout the corridor that encircled the auditorium. I rounded and flung myself into Box Four, where Meg was positively giddy. "Let me see it!" I said breathlessly.

Meg handed me the comb. It was silver, and bejewelled with pearls and engraved with a name: _Marie_. "It's beautiful," I breathed.

"I'll bet I could sell it to La Sorelli for ten francs," Meg gushed.

I paused before handing it back. "Suppose the owner comes looking for it?"

"Oh, Christine, that wouldn't happen," Meg assured, shaking her head. "It is far too below their class to come scrounging after a lost trinket in an empty theatre."

I nodded, and opened my pouch to show her all of the coins I had collected.

Meg brandished hers as well. "Let's count them!" I heartily agreed, and we poured the contents onto the floor of the box, still gleefully energetic with the memories of the previous night's triumph.

Apparently, however, the management was not.

"_Travesty!_" cried Lefevre. "_That's his one critique, 'twas a travesty! As if he should speak!_"

Meg and I dropped our coins at the loud, irritated sound, and stole a glance over the edge of the box. Lefevre stood about the stage in front of M Reyer. We grinned at each other. He had fairly sung his complaint!

"_Mockery, was his final word, such a mockery!_" agreed Reyer. "_Is that not absurd?_"

"_Clearly he has yet to see, audiences disagree_," continued the manager. "_'Smashing hit,' the paper wrote. You should see our Phantom's note!_"

Meg grabbed my hand and whispered, "The Opera Ghost! He must not have liked the performance!"

Lefevre cleared his throat, and proceeded:

"_Lefevre, she has disgraced my Opera_

"_Carlotta, thence, is simply out_

"_Your consensus is daft_

"_Though we're understaffed_

"_I believe_

"_That with my notoriety_

"_Society will still remain devout!_"

Before he could even finish reciting the musical letter, the aforementioned soprano and her posse burst through the doors of the auditorium, shrieking. Meg and I both jumped, and covered our mouths to stifle our giggles.

"_Opera Ghost!_" she wailed. "_Vhat a childish prank! Who dis Opera Ghost?_"

"_If I might be frank_," interjected Reyer, "_it's no joke! We've a spectre here: I swear, it's no joke…and he's quite austere_."

"_Superstition don't suffice! You believe dis poltergeist?_"

I glanced at Meg. "She's got a note too," I whispered, and the Angel's presence settled about me, with his familiar smell of candle-wax and rose petals. I never knew if anyone else smelt him, or if it was only me.

Lefevre had taken the note from Carlotta's manicured hands, and it was clear, as he cleared his throat a second time, that he would indeed be singing again.

"_My dear Signora Giudicelli_

"_Thus far you have ignored my hints_

"_Though a tune from your throat_

"_Couldn't charm a goat_

"_Still you sing!_

"_I've had it with your shrieking_

"_Though your speaking voice alone still makes me wince!_"

Meg and I burst into silent giggles, and Piangi chose his moment to sing aloud from a slip of white paper—his own note.

"_My dear Signor Ubaldo Piangi_

"_You're married to a mockingbird_

"_She's not fit for the stage_

"_But instead, a cage_

"_I should add_

"_Of course she'll want to squeak_

"_So bind her beak and she will utter not a word!_"

And as Carlotta pouted, Lefevre, Reyer, and Piangi joined their voices and input into a disharmonious rant that matched the Phantom's melody.

"_Clearly that's a gross distortion_

"_Our Ghost and his embellishments!_

"_One thing is for certain_

"_When they call, 'curtain'_

"_She remains_

"_He might resort to violence_

"_He might silence our soprano_

"_A piano suits his preference_

"_But our deference_ è gravano

"_So O.G. will have to deal_

"_For this spiel makes us weary of suspense!_"

I grabbed Meg's hand and we ran from the box, collapsing on the floor outside of it so we could release our laughter without restraint. Tears streamed from both our cheeks as we tried desperately to capture our breath. "What on earth…" Meg forced through a laugh, "does…_è gravano_ mean?"

I clutched my stomach, still enraptured by their hilarious ravings and the Phantom's arrogant sense of humour—for the first time, I could associate something other than fear with his name. "It means," I laughed, and took a deep breath. "It means _is a burden_, I think."

Through a large grin, Meg furrowed her delicate brow at me. "I did not know you spoke Italian."

I didn't…not fluently, at least. But the Angel had taught me a decent amount of dialect in other languages, Italian being one of them. I couldn't tell her that, however—especially with his obvious presence so near to me—so I quickly formed an excuse in my mind. "An Italian piece that the chorus performed last year…I read the translation."

Meg's curiosity vanished. "How I hate studying such things."

We were silent, our lips pursed over new bouts of laughter, for a moment. With one glance at each other, though, we were doubled over in fresh fits.

**A/N…This was a fun chapter. If you can't match the lyrics with tunes from the movie, ask me and I'll let you know which I had in mind.**


	33. To flee exhausted or conquer at last

**The Phantom**

How I smile when I hear my Christine laugh.

My transformation from loving father figure to solely Angel and Tutor has been an extreme benefactor in her expanding talent. The severing of our emotional bond gives us leave to concentrate on her voice and her voice only; hence, I can tutor her in a completely unbiased fashion, and her fear and reverence of me is greater now than it ever was in the beginning. It also demands that she abandon childish and human emotion the second our lessons begin, and therefore it has been years since she has truly laughed—happily—in my presence.

I understand that Christine is, indeed, desperately attached to her humanity, and her willingness to forsake all when she is with me and give herself entirely to me is not lost on my indifferent nature. Though I despise petty human sentiments and accept that routine happiness has no place in my existence, I cannot help but cherish the soprano laughter that betrays joy in my pupil's summery voice. It is good to know that my dark and deceptive influence over her has not bled into her own happiness. I would not, for the worth of my life, wish my own darkness upon her natural light.

Their laughing fit ends. Madame's daughter begins to weave her own far-fetched conclusions into the comedy I orchestrated amongst the staff. She is good for something, at least. "You know, Christine, in any case, with the Phantom so busily rebuking Carlotta, the ballet is safe from his critical eye. He obsesses, I think!"

My eyebrows draw together in indignation, and I abruptly sit tall—and as a corollary, my head smacks into the floorboards. "Ah!" The exclamation leaves my lips before I even think of the consequences.

Two sharp feminine gasps resound, on cue. "What was that?"

Instead of amending the situation, I do the only thing my idiotic mistake calls for. I leave, swiftly, and let them tend to their own confusion.

A young male voice however, draws me back toward the boxes. "Christine!" I am naturally attuned to the name, as I am naturally attuned to the word _music_, and I am properly inquisitive when it comes to her dealings with the world.

"Etienne…hello!" Christine returns, and Meg voices a greeting as well.

"Hello, Meg. Christine, may I speak with you for a moment?"

A typical silence follows, and I listen carefully to her wordless compliance. Meg says, "You must hurry, Christine—Maman is surely back from market, and practise starts soon." The lightest pair of feet scampers off in a different direction, and I recognise Christine's footfalls and the masculine set as they entre Box Four. Quietly I snake up into the crawlspace beneath the box and pull myself comfortably within the cherub-hung pillars. Etienne—Meg's little interest. It is beyond me _why_, with his tawdry, newly-formed adolescent moustache.

"It was quite a show last night, wasn't it?"

"It was."

Silence.

"How old are you, again?"

A pause. "Almost fourteen."

"Really? You aren't much younger than me, then. I'm seventeen."

I want to drum my fingers in disgusted anticipation, but the silence does not permit me to do so.

"You danced beautifully, no matter what the other girls say. I mean, I fancy they are just jealous of you."

Christine still says nothing, and I mentally applaud her for remaining apathetic to her colleague's obvious advances. As much as the boy and his juvenile cravings annoy me, I am pleased that he finally salvages enough nerve to approach her at the same moment that Meg's curious ears listen with reddening jealousy just outside the entrance to Box Four. Christine is not an ordinary girl; it is time that Meg is put in her place, and surprisingly, it can even be done without my help.

"I say, Christine, you are really a mystery!"

My grin cannot be contained at the infatuated young man. He is a talented performer (by my manager's standards) in both song and dance, and the handsome object of gossip and affection amongst my theatre's young ladies. Pride that I am reluctant to credit to fatherliness dances in my ribcage. Christine is—

"You know are merely saying that to flatter me!"

My thoughts halt at the sound of Christine's voice. What is that? Bashfulness? She is being _coy_ with him? In my secretive state, I begin to brood. Their conversation continues.

"I wouldn't just say that, Mademoiselle." A shallow, silent chuckle of disbelief escapes me as he settles into his charm. "I think about you all the time, in fact."

_Of course you do, you dimwitted prig_.

Christine inhales giddily. "I…I admit I don't know what to say to that."

My eyes roll back into my head in disgust. I put far too much faith in my young pupil; she will learn soon not to succumb to such games.

"Then do not say a thing."

What a typical—

"What are you _doing?_"

A sound of scurrying feet, and Christine is suddenly at the other end of the box.

The hairs on my arms stand erect, even through my heavy sleeves. I snake through the pillar until I am closer to Christine, and fixate my eyes on her through a crack in the marble. I cannot see her face, but I can see Etienne's.

"Would you let me kiss you?"

I want, more than anything, to close my fingers around his neck when Christine giggles at this. Slowly, the dark-haired tenor begins to approach her, from the other side of Box Four.

Mad ire swells from my gut to my eyes, and my ears are hot. Christine submits to none but me! "_Christine_," I sing softly, confident that only she will hear it. I smile with immense satisfaction as she jumps, and promptly topples over the edge of the velvety seat to the carpet.

"Christine!" cries Etienne.

I clasp my hands together.

"Stop!" my student warns as the young man swoops to help her stand. "Don't you dare ever try to kiss me again, Etienne!"

"But I thought you wanted—"

"You truly aren't one for thought, then!" she scolds, standing herself, and brushing past him. I am duly proud of her quick recovery, but for only an instant as I remember her near assent merely a moment before. Worse than that, though, is the sudden stirring in my loins, the excitement that pervades my body and thoughts that another man desires her, and she is, indeed, a woman, and she did, indeed, reject him for _me_. She is—

_A thirteen year old girl! _I bite down at the inside of my cheek fiercely to rid myself of these ridiculous musings.

Beyond the entrance to Box Four, Meg's feet carry her frantically down the corridor, so she will not be caught eavesdropping. Christine leaves Etienne, despite his sorrowful apologies, and I slink out of my hiding place after her, watching her movements through the vents.

Her long legs are easily visible beneath the shapely ballet skirt, and her white arms hug her blossoming chest. She is chilled. Perhaps by the encounter. More likely, by my voice, and the realisation that I am, certainly, watching her and guarding her at every moment. Her rounded lips are pursed into a straight line, and her eyebrows are drawn above her eyes. If there is ever a befitting definition to the word "beautiful," Christine Daae is it. Far more beautiful than any of the rest…more so than the golden cherub Meg, or the sensuous flirt Lisette, or even the voluptuous siren Sorelli. Even in her uncertainty, she is lovely. I remember how much I wanted Madame when she was afraid of me. It is an exploitative duet of power and desire that inflames within me such devious attentions. Christine does not fear me the way Madame did…but she is both grateful and unsettled because of my presence, and the inner rousing heightens as I follow her path.

I cannot take my eyes from her, and I convince myself that I do not need to. I have run from temptation for far too long; instead of running, I will confront it, and wear it down, and prove to myself that I am above such things. I am exhausted of letting it defeat my resolve, and forcing me to forfeit the battle and flee from it. Now, I will show myself that I can look upon her and conquer lust in the same moment.

Christine is making in the direction of the auditorium, and Etienne has ceased his pursuit. For a moment my resolve dithers; she is going to her ballet lessons. I have not let myself watch her in these practises for months, since the ill-fated singing lesson when I discovered that she had changed into a woman. But no—I am above human lust. I am above it. I can conquer it. I will not let it dictate my thoughts, _nor_ my actions. If I choose to watch her dance, I will do so, and with a blameless conscience.

**Madame Giry**

"One, two, three…one, two, three…."

My students did then _plié_, _battement_, and _chassé_…_plié_, _battement_, and _chassé_…at my command.

"One, two, three…one, two…ah, Mademoiselle Daae."

All heads turned to the flustered young ballerina as she halted in her quiet entrance. "Madame Giry, forgive—"

I let out a sound that was half-sigh, half-growl. I was exhausted—sick!—of her constant pleas for forgiveness. "Just take your position, and make haste." Christine nodded, ever so sombre, and stepped in behind Meg at the _barre_. Several students sniggered and whispered, and I turned to vent my frustration on them. "Not a sound! Not a word. You are _ballerines_, not lyricists, _danseurs_, not criers. Today, you will practice, and continue to do so until I see you fit for tonight's performance."

Groans ascended.

I clapped my hands and tapped my cane loudly against the surface of the floor. "No complaints! Stretch! One, two, three…."

The practice continued for a quarter hour before I stopped them. "Students, forme a line—male and female pairs for warm-up; choose quickly."

A few seconds of hesitation and partners were quickly formed. Meg was instantly approached by a young red-haired suitor, and she smiled politely at him before moving with him into the queue. Her eyes, however, were across the room, and I followed them to where Etienne was propositioning Christine.

My heart dulled. I loved Christine dearly, but it pained me that Marguerite had to witness such obvious affection given by the one she fancied to her best friend.

Jealousy was, perhaps, more dangerous than love.

"In your pairs!"

Something stirred within me, and I could feel the Phantom watching.


	34. A delicate flower in a placid rain

**Christine**

"My Lady?"

I did my best to muster a glare. In the business of the moment and in a room this size, I could not tell if the Angel was still with me. But regardless, his subtle warning had shaken me well into awareness. Etienne was handsome—though I was not entirely fond of his moustache—and he had an endearing voice and was a fantastic dancer. But he was, after all, Meg's fancy, and I would be a traitor to our friendship if I were to let something develop between us. Meg was far too important to me to be lost over what the Angel dismissed as a childish infatuation. Besides all that, the Angel would clearly not be pleased. He always encouraged me to keep my distance from the others, and constantly warned me against the attentions of the theatre's young men, who were "smooth as a snake but equal in their poison." I soon came to understand him, and I was not fond of the notion to disagree, or worse, outright defy his concerns.

"Come now, Christine. I am sorry for trying to kiss you. But please—partner with me?"

"There are other girls," I said flatly, turning my head to find Meg, but to my surprise she was already partnered—and cold. I threw her a helpless gaze, but she merely turned from me. My heart fell at such a gesture, but in that same instant, my hand was taken up and I was being led to the queue. I did not risk making a scene in front of the others by resisting Etienne—far too much attention was drawn to me already because of my rather trifling skill of the dance. To be perfectly honest, I was a bit thrilled by his forwardness, though shameful to _be_ thrilled. Against all good judgement and for the sake of _better_ judgement, I let him take me to the line.

Our steps were simple, but maddeningly intimate; not by the world's standards, but by my own, and by the Angel's, I was sure. Etienne would not let me leave his gaze; our eyes were locked. His charming grin teased me. "Have you ever had a beau, Christine?"

How utterly forthright! My spine tingled. "It is not your matter to suffer."

Madame called our directions, and he spun me backward into him. His words came from behind me. "But I _do_ suffer."

I was, after all, a girl. I bit at my lip to keep from giggling at such a charming response. But I was determined, regardless of the emotions I found stirring within me, not to fail Meg, or the Angel. I did my best to stiffen within his embrace. "Then you suffer alone."

He seemed duly impressed by my retort, and my heart pounded that I'd actually had the nerve to say it! My boldness had never been in speech—only in action. "Tell me, Christine. Please—I want to know."

At Madame's signal, he spun me around until I was facing him. The sound of chatter and scraping feet drowned our conversation into a void. "I did," I relented, confident. "He was a vicomte."

"A vicomte!" Etienne cried. "Who?"

"You wouldn't know him," I declared, remaining hard. "He lives in Nior now. We were very much in love."

Madame's voice sounded above the noise, and Etienne's skilled hands lifted me three feet from the floor, where I struggled to retain the proper forme. "When was this?" he enquired, grinning.

I averted my eyes. "Some time ago."

He brought me back to the floor into a spin. "You have been at this conservatory since you were seven. Do you mean to tell me that you fell in love before your front teeth even grew in?"

I frowned at him fiercely for shedding reality on my ignorant claim. "He was very special to me, and he remains so, Etienne." I decided it was very helpful to use my affection for Raoul as a scapegoat. When had I so favoured cunning?

Etienne frowned as well, and looked to the side, before passing me to his other arm. "Do you believe you will see him again?"

I said nothing, which resulted in Etienne's irritatingly knowing nod. Still, after all of these years, I missed Raoul. He was, perhaps, a fond memory that I associated with my father. It did not make sense to me—I had the Angel, after all, and I shouldn't need any other apparition of my past to comfort me. I still thought of Raoul often, though he had undoubtedly forgotten our adventures. "He promised once to marry me," I offered at the silence between us.

"Christine, you were only a baby!" Etienne drew me into his chest and dipped me backward. "Do you really think a vicomte is going to return for a mere ballerina and _marry_ her? He is far too enriched in society to risk something such as that!"

All of my fondness for Etienne vanished in that moment. With anger that stemmed from something much deeper than simple hurt feelings, I growled at him, "You value me so little, Etienne? You yourself are nothing more than a theatre rat!" His stunned expression, however, was not hurt—instead, it was amused. I tried from a different angle. "You pretty yourself and trim your moustache, but not even your countenance _combined_ with your skills as a performer impress me! You fancy yourself a good catch, I suppose, but you're nothing more than a sweet tenor voice and a swift step. Why, you might as well join the Queen of the Night's fops in their ridiculous fawning on stage tonight! Heaven knows you'll have a better audience."

At that, Etienne burst into a spell of incredulous laughter. I wasn't sure at which I should be more shocked—Etienne's unexpected reaction, or my own boldness. I had never spoken so to anyone before! Immediately I could feel my face flush, and I turned my head from him and longed to bury myself in my curls. How utterly ridiculous I must have looked…and sounded. Thank goodness no one _else_ had witnessed my display.

The remainder of the warm-up passed in silence, and I avoided his grins and purposefully intimate hands. When I found it within myself to meet his eyes, I offered him only glowers of the fiercest kind. My self-confidence returned just enough to display itself without fostering careless words. Thoughts of all sorts entered my head, and each had to do with the Angel—would he be proud of me for resisting Etienne? Of course. Would he sense that at first I did not _want_ to resist? I hoped not, but my past experiences with his nature seemed to assure otherwise. Did he view my outburst as commendably daring…or impudent audacity? This I did not know. Perhaps I wasn't as associated with his nature as I would have liked to think. It was possible that he wasn't even with me, though I suspected he was; I was understanding more and more every day just how closely I was watched.

This thought alone both thrilled and frightened me. In fact, it was a bit like what I had felt when first with Etienne—delighted, and nervous, and unsure—but different. Deeper. Etienne didn't scare me. The Angel did not, either, but he was…well, he made me feel…well, I should only feel happy, _ecstatic_ even, and grateful! But at times it _was_ unsettling. Possibly because he was so strict. But then, I'd always asked him to be strict. He had every right to be.

The minute the warm-up ended, I broke away from Etienne. I could not sort my thoughts at all. I loved the Angel and respected him, more than anything else in the world. The realisation that my thoughts had centered on him entirely was comforting, that his importance in my life was at least not lost on me. And yet….

"_Rond de jambe!_" came Madame Giry's command.

I circled my toe about the floor, certain that I was doing it wrong as I watched the graceful movements of the other dancers. I adored singing; sometimes I hated dancing.

"No, Christine, like this!"

I let Madame demonstrate and aid me, my thoughts still fully on my Angel. Only a few months before he told me how he disapproved of my dancing—not my ability, but my lessons themselves. When I tried to promise him that I would happily withdraw from the academy, however, he refused to let me.

The Angel of Music was the greatest mystery in all the world. And as much as Angels are light and understanding, I was more than a little intrigued by that mystery.

…

**The Phantom**

That stupid girl, Christine!

Blast, how proud I am of her that she put the boy in his place, and insulted his sordid moustache. Blast! How stupid of her to let anger govern her movements! Passion adopts many formes, possesses several different behaviours. She is attracted to the charismatic tenor, no doubt. Or, perchance, she _had_ been until his idiotic remark devalued her character. I have not often glimpsed Christine's anger—she would never _dare_ direct it toward myself or let it surface when she is with me. But her fury at the foolish boy was as unrestrained as I have ever seen her. Christine is capable of anger, then! It is both refreshing…and maddening! How dare she behave so _stupidly!_ In the midst of the raging battle between my mind and body, I cannot afford to fight against her infuriated _passion!_ But her lips are full, and my soul is hungry.

Yes…I approached the class backstage with every resolve to conquer my lust. Oh, I am indeed a genius. I am incensed enough right now to admit to my own _stupid_ arrogance. When desire runs wild, it takes on a mind of its own, and I am helpless against it. The _Bible_ demands that we flee from temptation—as much as I resent the God who wrote it, I must begrudgingly give Him credit for _that_. I was a fool to think that I am capable of glaring at temptation in the face and beating it at its own game. My passion was already ignited today when I first began to observe Christine in her dance. What my mind and, yes, my _heart_ sees when I look upon my student holds no consequence at all. My eyes perform only for the sake of my body, and my flesh hungers after the _woman_ I behold and gives not a second thought to principle.

I am not as unwise as I first deem myself, for I did flee. As soon as she left Etienne's arms, I left as well. For hours I have meditated upon music, upon Gustave's violin, and conjured every memory I retain of fathering Christine, and Christine when she was a child, and not a woman. For hours I have assured myself that I am not the monster, that it is Erik, because my mind and soul are as disconnected from my body as they can possibly be whilst still supporting my mortal existence. My flesh is necessary to tutor Christine; as much as I humour myself as a Ghost and an Angel, my flesh reminds me that I am still, ever reluctantly, a man, with a man's body, and said body allows me to teach Christine and mould her into my creation.

And still, this human body which does _so_ much good, _succumbs_ to _lust!_ How familiar this situation resounds within me. Madame would be _infuriated_.

I did say, yes, that I am not as unwise as I first deemed myself. I lied. Such a claim is ludicrous. I am the idiot of the nation! I am the greatest fool the world has ever birthed. Because I _did_ flee—for hours I fled—only to return to her dressing room before the second performance of _Die Zauberflöte_.

And here I am. And there she is.

Christine has collapsed atop her divan breathlessly. "Madame Giry pushed us harder than ever," she gasps, and her chest heaves for want of breath—up, and down, rising and falling, gentle, and then fierce, and rapid. My eyes will not shut as I gape at her through the mirror. She glistens still with sweat. Like a fair white flower after a placid rain.

My voice. I have that still, right? "Christine…you will want to costume yourself. The performance begins in less than a half of an hour." Yes, get her out of my vision. Get her out of my thoughts. Get her into her revealing getup. You _ass!_

Christine reluctantly pulls herself into a standing position, slowly, like a cat, and raises her arms above her head in a releasing stretch. I swallow thickly, pursing my dry lips, and then wetting them, over and over again. She captivates me. Her every move consumes me. Her long, tightly curled chestnut locks fall carelessly over her white throat and gently rounded breasts. Her ballet uniform hugs her waist tightly, and I envy it. And the skirt that flows from her hips, in all its modesty, reveals far too much when she kneels to rub her sore feet. Her _skirt_ reveals too much? My eyes are no longer on her legs, but her blouse, which exposes her delicate pale chest as she kneels, exposes it to my fascinated eyes. "I feel far too exhausted to perform tonight," she mutters, and then laughs a bit. Her laugh is like the wind spinning about the soft spring flowers of a meadow. "I suppose I haven't a choice, though." And with that, she skips toward the closet, full of new energy.

I root myself to my spot in the dank corridor, centering my thoughts everywhere but the passage that will lead me to the dressing room's rafters, where everything is visible. Even the view behind her changing curtain. _No!_ Such a thought is repulsive, and wicked. I have _never_ thought to watch her as she dresses before now. I busy myself with thoughts of the violin, and close my eyes, searching for a melody and trying frantically to calm myself with it.

A moment passes. I hear Christine struggle with her costume, a grunt that could easily be mistaken for pleasure, and the stirring in my loins that hasn't left me all day fights desperately to make itself known. My student at last emerges from behind her screen, and my breath catches in my throat. It is the same costume she wore last night—the same scanty peasant-girl attire—but last night I had the entire production to fill my senses with, and I did not want her as I do now. She studies herself in the mirror, her lips drawn into a frown, and adjusts the costume about her body.

"Christine," I breathe, and suck at my teeth at the stupidity of such an action.

Christine jumps. "I didn't know you were still here!"

"I just returned," I recover quickly, my eyes drinking in their fill of her sumptuous forme. At the back of my mind, protests and screams of defiance attack me, but I cannot hear them correctly. This is wrong. I should flee. "I want you to sing for me…just once…before you perform tonight."

Christine smiles widely at this—she is always eagre to sing for her Angel. _She is lovely when she is eagre._ She looks almost hungry. _Merde!_ Cease this! "Anything?" she asks excitedly.

"Anything you please," I force out, fully hearing the husky glaze over my voice…and, all of a sudden, not heeding it. The woman before me parts her full, rounded lips and begins. I do not know what the words are—I cannot concentrate. The voice entices me out of my mind and fills the caverns of my body. Her tongue rolls off every unknown word and coats each in silky, saccharine music…figuratively caressing every inch of my skin with its soft, supple warmth…teasing at my eardrums and drawing heat from my soul and through my flesh. I want to cry out, but I cannot. Her voice…her voice…it is as if I am paralysed, and have not even the desire to struggle against it. My desires are entirely occupied elsewhere. Slowly, I feel myself sway inwardly within the heat of—

_Stop!_ The voice is not audible, and I have no idea from where it comes, or from whom. Perhaps it is the Phantom, begging me to shield myself from such human, animal passion. Or perhaps—perhaps it is Erik. Perhaps he loves Christine enough, enough to keep the Phantom from….

Damn it! Who _am_ I, even?

The scream sounds again in my head, and I force myself to look away from Christine—and instead at my hand, which plays the violin along with her unearthly voice in supernatural accompaniment. As I watch my hand in feigned fascination, it begins to shake, and the music the instrument produces wavers and dithers. I quickly lift the bow, soundlessly, from the strings, and wrap it within my discarded cape—when had I discarded it?—and set it gently on the floor, with trembling fingers.

Christine's song rises, in strength, and in fervour.

The colour that soars from her vocal chords is the colour of maturity, and complements her newly developing curves that hint provocatively of womanhood, which disguise the childlike soul within. Her voice is like both fire and balm against my writhing heart and mind. Writhing…like two lovers, a man and a child, who writhe against each other, beneath the weight of their own lust and a quilt…or in the open air, with a crisp breeze or the pounding heat of the sun. Pounding….

I cannot keep my thoughts at bay—not like this. Slowly, I reach around my side until my quaking hand grasps the dagger at my hip.

Her legato waterfall of music floods my mind and streams into my soul, and trickles into the deepest region of my flesh. The natural pleasures of man that I have for my whole life been denied are waiting for me mere feet away. All that divides us is her belief that I have no human body—and a pane of magical glass. It may not be enough to stop me. My hands burn for the feel of her naked skin, and my ears smoulder for the harsh caresses of euphoric moans. It is time to end this, and to end it in blood, as I once did when Madeleine tempted me.

I raise the white garment from the hem of my trousers until my waist is exposed to the dancing torchlight. I press the edge of the dagger against the long, thick scar along my side. The steel is cold against the sweltering heat of my skin. If I cannot rid myself of this lust by merely averting my eyes, I will force my thoughts elsewhere through physical pain. Christine leaps an octave, and the fine, sharp tip of the dagger slits into the scar. Hot blood spills over the deep tan of my skin and the steely silver of the blade, and stunning pain marauds my senses.

But instead of conquering the desire that courses through my veins, it merely joins it—and sets my nerves even more ablaze.

I clench my teeth against the pain of the reopened wound and the pain of my hardening body against the material of my pants. This has always worked before. Physical pain has _always_ recaptured my straying mind during such ordeals. _Why_ is it not working now? Dread fills my blood and pumps throughout my heated system with every beat of my heart. I don't _know_ what to do. I have _no_ idea _what to do_. I want to scream out and yell in mad frustration that I have lost the control that I've always had over my desire. This has never happened before. It is out of my hands, and I don't know how to handle it!

I force open my eyes, and my body stiffens.

Christine sways to her own euphoric music, and her eyes are closed and her face is lifted toward the heavens as her throat expels the most inhumanly breathtaking music I, in my passion, have ever heard in my unfortunate life.

My mind goes blank.

And slowly, my hand drops to my trousers.

…

**Christine**

The song slowed and rounded on itself, dipping into minor. Singing in a minor key always excited me—there was something so dark and cryptic and soulful about minor chords. I pressed my hands into my torso, working to support my breath and push out as much sound as possible. I was giddy, and light—my voice was exceptionally beautiful, no doubt resulting from the adrenaline of my argument with Etienne—and the Angel would surely hear it!

The notes jumped in staccato fashion and picked up speed and intensity. The rhythm pounded away at the string of notes, like a hammer against a block of concrete, fashioning an image of utmost beauty.

He had stopped accompanying me with Father's violin, but I knew to continue. Perhaps he was so impressed, he wanted only to listen to my voice. Then again…I tried not to focus on it, but perhaps he was not impressed at all. It was entirely possible that I was only fooling myself, and I was either trying far too hard or completely deaf to the sound of my own voice. My brow furrowed, but I forced a smile as I continued my song. His silence unnerved me…and now I could only worry.

The crescendo was in sight. I breathed deeply and approached it with a running start, beckoning all of my strength and as much passion as I could muster, and rising with it. The key gradually ascended from minor to major as I scaled the final melody, and with a triumphant series of trills and arpeggios I fell into the climax, my voice swelling and softening with the rise and fall of the fluttering descent. The Angel then said something, or made a sound—a deep, guttural sound, but I could hardly hear him against my own voice. I held the last note as long as I could while still retaining control of my voice and vibrato, and finally released it, sucking in a deep and heavy breath as soon as the music stilled.

There was silence. Only the sound of my own shallow breaths, and his, strangely echoing my own. "Angel?" I swallowed, my nerves standing on end, dreading his reaction, though it seemed as if I had never sung so in my life. "Did you say something while I sang?"

I held my breath, and I heard only his. I clenched my fists, and my heart raced. His silence was frightening me—truly frightening me. I cursed myself. I had done something wrong, I knew it, I knew it without even understanding what, or why.

"Oh, Christine."

My heart stopped. I had thought his silence frightening—but his voice was far worse. I had never heard such a sound before. My name on his lips was so broken, so sad, deeply, deeply sad, and troubled. He said my name again, and his voice shook. It shook so fiercely, tears sprang to my eyes. This was not an easy day—this was a day that should mark triumph, personal or not, but no, triumph would escape me just as Fate would have it. The Angel's sadness was now my own. Oh, what had I _done?_

"Angel?" I ventured, and my own voice trembled. I almost thought to marvel at how dependent my emotions were on his; but in my mind I couldn't forme a complete thought. His heavy breaths were choked with tears. Tears? Was he crying? He was _crying?_ He was…he _was_. "Oh, Angel, why are you crying?" I whispered, and the tears that stood in my eyes fell onto my cheeks. My hand came to my chest. I had never heard him cry—I had never even thought he was able to cry! "Angel!"

"No, Christine!" His voice shattered about me, and I fell backward onto my divan in fear, fear of the supernatural powers beyond my comprehension. I had never heard such sorrow—not only in _his_ voice, but in _any_ voice in the world. Not even in my own. Not even my grief for my father tainted my vocal chords in such a way. "Get out! Get out, Christine, get out now!"

I drew my knees up to my chest in a horrified confusion, and put my face in my hands, sobbing, and cursing myself again and again. But curses are weak, and they were to no avail and had no command over my movements. _What had I done?_

"GET OUT!" My hands went from my face to my ears as he screamed, and my heart froze within me, freezing all of my limbs. Horror flooded my senses—he was so loud! My head pounded…I had never known him to be so angry. Why couldn't I leave? _Stupid girl!_ I screamed inwardly. I had lost my senses, and I couldn't even control my own limbs. I wept loudly, frantically, willing my legs to move, to take me as far from him as I possibly could. _Go, Christine! Get out!_ His livid command matched my own. "GET OUT, YOU LITTLE SIREN!"

From somewhere within me, strength was found, and without even realising it my legs sprang from the divan and I flung myself at the door. The Angel's horrendously loud fury attacked me from every wall, from the carpet and the ceiling, from the divan and the mirror and the closet and the paintings on the wall as he screamed at me to get out. I was sobbing, and through my blurry vision I fumbled with the handles on the door and flung them wide open. I didn't know the meaning of fear. I didn't know the meaning of horror, or dread—not until now.

And the most horrible sadness, that I have ever felt, filled me as I heard the doors slam behind me, and the Angel's monstrous voice, still screaming, through them. At the end of the corridor, I collapsed against a wall, squeezing my fingers into the wood and pressing my tear-blemished cheek against its surface. I could not seek the Angel for comfort. I could not talk to Father—I had failed him again. Speaking to God was useless—if His Angel was angry with me, undoubtedly He was as well. And Madame Giry would not understand, and Meg couldn't know.

I was alone, with only the threat of an elusive Opera Ghost to witness my anguish.


	35. Bride

**The Phantom**

I seize the breath from between my palms. The fingers of my left hand dig forcefully into the naked half face, and the fingers of my right hand do likewise against the stiff white leather. My left eye is dangerously exposed to their groping movements. I don't care. Nothing matters now.

I have scrubbed my hands until they are raw, desperately washing away any reminder of what I just did, of the sin I left spilt in the lifeless, dark corridor, where no one will ever know of it. I will never be clean. Nothing can remove the invisible stain from the flesh of my hands, the pleasures of my own flesh that will haunt me until my flesh fails me. Not even the tears that escaped mercilessly from my eyelids have cleansed me of my perversion. I have always abhorred tears. They are like blood, blood that has been drained of its crimson life and left behind only empty, crystalline shells of futility.

I called Christine a siren. I am not sure that she is one. I want her to be, so that the blame can lie with her, and not just myself. I want her to share in the responsibility of my sin, so that it may be her sin as well. But as my tears have ended and dried, I can only find confusion. I loathe being so unsure of myself when matters broach spirituality, and sin. But I am sure of one thing, and one alone.

Christine is to be my bride.

In fact, I have never been more sure about anything. It has taken me hours of self-loathing and prayer, real prayer, to a real God, to come to this conclusion. God did not answer my prayer. He only tormented me, and torments me still, with guilt. I know myself well, and I know that I cannot permit guilt to woo my senses and govern my actions. Guilt is a human emotion, and I will die if I succumb to it. _You will kill me, God_. There is only one way to purge myself of this.

My lust for Christine will not be contained, especially now that I have consummated it in the forme of pleasuring myself—in her presence—which is unforgivable. My lust has driven me to near insanity in the past, and undoubtedly will do so again. Until this day, I have learned to contain it, and have been capable of controlling my life and retaining my judgement and sparing the world Erik's wickedness. But I am like a dog who has tasted meat for the first time—now I crave nothing else, and it is irreversible. I will die, if I am denied again.

At first I raged with Erik, both aloud and in my head, over my decision. He admonished me for abandoning my vow to remove myself from humanity. I returned that my decision is owed to his own lusting and the power of it that a Phantom couldn't fight. He told me that I learned to escape his lust for Madame, and can do the same with Christine. I admitted that the first point was true, but I failed with Christine as I never failed with Madame, and to escape it is therefore useless. He told me that I successfully fell out of love with Madeleine, and the same method can be used with my pupil. I retorted that I was not in love with Christine, and so the two were not even comparable; also, I _did_ resort to those methods, and they did not _work_. He replied by saying that one method I did not try was to distance myself from Christine as I did with Madame. I rebuked him for it, and reminded him that doing so would destroy her.

_He does not like my answer. "But taking her as your bride will do otherwise? Are you MAD?" he cries within me. "You love her as if she is your own daughter!"_

"_I do not," I return. "You do."_

"_It is all the same, and you would be a fool to deny it. You—I, whoever—have bent your life on smothering your love for her, and shielding yourself from the lust that would endanger your victim."_

_I despise him when he confuses his thoughts with my own. He forgets that we are not the same. "I have been wrong in the past, and unlike you, I am willing to mould myself as life calls for it."_

_His fury wells within me, but I remind myself that it is his, and not mine. He doesn't care for my efforts. "It was my idiotic mistake to lose faith in myself so many years ago. Until now, I have thought that your dominance was best for me, and for Madeleine, and for Christine. Your impulsive nature is spurring me to doubt."_

"_Believe in me, as you once did." He has to know that this is for the best. I have to be at peace with myself. "This is best for Christine."_

"_She will never understand. She will never submit, especially when it is clear that I have lied to her."_

_I growl audibly. "Christine is under my control, and is easily manipulated. You saw how effortlessly I turned her from Etienne; she will obey my every command, as Madame Giry did not. If I were to tell her to sever all ties with her little friend Meg, or even Madame herself, she would do so without blinking an eye."_

"_How can you have no guilt over _using_ her in such a way?"_

"_By reminding myself that the loss of her father has left her unstable and incapable of governing her own life. She needs me, Erik." He is silent for a moment, and I continue. "And I need her."_

"_You want her. There is a difference."_

"_And I will have her." He is unbearably irritating, and he does not appreciate me. I have always intervened in his life to protect him from himself, and only when he has fought it have I done something dangerous, or evil. The two of us cannot work together; it is natural that I have some semblance of control, so that he does not dictate my actions. "You forget so easily the disasters that always result when you rebel against my designs."_

"_There are some sins I cannot let myself commit! I may despise human beings, but I have somehow ended up loving Christine, even if you will not admit it. I cannot sit back silently and watch you devastate her."_

_I rest my chin in my palm and close my eyes. It is these times that I hate most; it is these times that I am most unsure if I am Erik or the Phantom. It is so much simpler when he is quiet; then, I am certain of my identity. But when he resurfaces, it is a great struggle to remember that I am also the Phantom, and _if_ I remember that, I can maintain dominance over the human part of myself. "You would have me continue as the Angel until Christine no longer needs me."_

"_That is what I would have you do."_

"_Was it not you who were originally against such an idea?"_

_He says nothing for a moment, and I feel his resignation. "Until you convinced me otherwise. If I had known it would come to this…"_

"_I never would have begun."_

_He agrees with that, at least. "But what has been done cannot be undone. Now that I have deceived her irreversibly, there is nothing _else_ you can do without hurting her."_

"_But surely you know that the past always repeats itself, and as long as we both remain unchanged and divided, she will suffer far more." A surge of love for Christine swells within me, and I fight against it. "Take your human sentiments back. I have relinquished them unto you as I want nothing to do with them." But Erik is stronger than the Phantom would like to admit._

_Slowly, I feel as our roles are reversed, and I am no longer suppressed beneath his tyrannical hand. I should still fight against myself, but his words ring true, and I am finally beginning to see things from his perspective. If I were to remain Christine's teacher alone, he would always fight me, and he would regain control against my struggles, and something even more disastrous would transpire. I hate him, but I cannot get rid of him. I still don't know if my desire for Christine is my own or if it is the Phantom's. If it is his, I should never have given him control in the first place. If it is mine, he is stupid to succumb to my lust. But there is nothing either of us can do about this now. Understanding that he will never surrender to my wishes, we will never be united unless I surrender first._

"_Good," he says._

_I growl at him, because I hate that I have lost control over the two halves of my soul. In the beginning I saw an outlet, and a scapegoat, so that I might never blame myself; if one did wrong, I would sink into the other, and avoid all responsibility for the deeds of the first. Ordinary human beings have two sides to them: one soul, but two halves of it. The difference, I thought then, is that I would know how to use each half in accordance with my own desires. I now know that ordinary human beings are wise in that they have learned to work with both sides and accept full responsibility. Somewhere, I have lost that, and now I am doomed to deal with two conflicting psyches that are both very much me, but very much against me. I don't know who I am at all._

I stare at my bare, red hands, and look for my gloves.

After his resignation, it took several moments of Erik venting and throwing things before he chose to defer to the Phantom again. I protect him, and I want him to trust me, so I can at last trust myself. As Erik, I am much more feeling, but therefore much weaker, and as the Phantom I have less of a struggle controlling myself because I do not harbour useless emotions. It has always taken him time to understand this, but he eventually does. Fortunately for the world, it did not take long to be at peace—or at least accord—with myself, this time. Even after such certainty has been granted at my decision, I still reel with disgust at myself and Erik's pain for what I did hours before in Christine's dressing room. God can never forgive me, and I will never forgive myself…but at least now I know how to rectify it.

_As much as you despise humans, you want nothing more than to become one of them._

I sigh. I _thought_ I was at accord with myself, at least. I don't know what that meant at all, but I am willing to listen, if only to take my mind off of my perversity in Christine's dressing room.

_You want a normal life, with a normal family. A wife would be the first step to becoming such._

I let my eyes roll in exasperation._ I will not have a wife in the traditional sense. She will be my tool—there is not a more fitting marriage in the world, than that of musician to his music. Imagine what we could create, if only we do not let the common angst of an emotion-borne marriage hinder us._

He is arrogant now. _You put too much faith in yourself. You want so fiercely to fortify the gap between us that you forget our connection. We are the same, and I do love Christine. You believe you can distance yourself from that, but eventually the love that binds me to Christine will draw you into its unrelenting embrace as well._

I refuse to believe him, because I refuse to claim such an idea as my own. It is ridiculous to think of him as wholly myself, because myself trying to convince myself is a notion I cannot fathom. Thank all things within Heaven and Hell that my thoughts are stricken to my head. If such lunacy were heard by others, I would have to kill them! Erik seems satisfied with that parting thought, as I can feel his satisfaction, and he settles into silence. I loathe him, as much as I have devoted my life to protecting him. He is the cause of all the pain that lingers in my memory. When I allowed myself to love, all I received was pain. When I banished love, I was left with _memories_ of pain. I remember the horror and agony that I suffered at the hands of those I cared for—my mother, and Madame—and those I did not want to care about—Lombardi, and the world who was disgusted by me. I have learned from love, and I have learned that it is the very core of evil. I know that my soul is plainly composed of music. My marriage to my student will be that of a spiritual nature to _satisfy_ my soul, and a physical nature to satisfy my flesh. Christine and I will be one in spirit and body, but not in heart. Never in heart.

Not even God can make me love Christine.


	36. In trusting a ghost

**Madame Giry**

My hand turned the knob slowly; I did not want to awaken any of my girls. I had left my cane against Meg's dresser when the manager called for me excitedly. The only thing that ever excited M Lefevre was money, and I was coerced into listening as he recited the night's numbers for a full five minutes before I could escape. But I had forgotten my cane, and wanted it now, before I departed for my bed. Mornings could sometimes prove merciless on my leg.

The door cracked, and I stepped silently into the darkness. The starlight provided just enough illumination to guide my feet around the cots. I nearly tripped on a careless ballerina's shoes, but caught myself, and made a note to scold her for it come morning.

"_Christine, _mon ange,_ the sleeping beauty_

"_Why is your face troubled?_"

My body froze before Meg's bed as the impossibly soft whisper sounded on the still air. I glanced to my right at Christine's bed; I could hardly make out her features, but I could see as she stirred beneath the blanket. I didn't dare to breathe. "Angel?" she returned, just as softly. I stilled; this would be the first time that I would hear the two of them interact, together, since I first discovered his tutelage.

"Shhh," he chided. "You must sleep." My heart fluttered at the sound, for it was something I hadn't heard in a long, long time—compassion, care. There was no doubt in my mind that he cherished her. Not even he was that great of an actor.

"I can't." Her voice was light with tears. A nightmare, no doubt.

"Did I hurt you, Christine?"

Did he _hurt_ her? I strained to hear their voices, all the while telling my heart to cease its loud pounding. I had thought she meant she couldn't sleep because of a nightmare—but that was not the case. He had hurt her, somehow.

"I hurt you far more, Angel. How can you still sing to me, when I have done such a terrible thing to you?"

"My child, you've done nothing wrong. Will you forgive an Angel for needlessly hurting your heart?"

Of course, my conscience would choose this moment to harass me of our deception now. Merely hearing him refer to himself as the Angel in her presence tore at my heart with guilt. _Trust him_.

Christine was silent for a moment. "You mean I didn't hurt you?"

"No, my Angel. You could never do anything to hurt me. I was weeping at the beauty of your song."

I could almost hear Christine smile, and I was stunned for a moment at how childlike she sounded—she always tried so hard to behave in a mature, adult way, as life's circumstances had forced her to grow up quickly. But she was, still, a little girl. "Then I did please you. I was afraid when I heard you cry, Master."

"Tears are not always as they seem."

"Then why did you yell at me?" she asked hesitantly.

Alarms rang between my ears. Surely he knew I was here, listening, only two feet from Christine. How would he answer? "I have raised my voice to you before."

Another pause. "But this time—"

"The performance was about to begin, Christine. I was merely encouraging you to hurry, as you were near to missing the opening act. I will only tell you this once; I wish never to speak of it again."

Something was wrong.

"Of course, Angel."

"Goodnight, my child. Dream of me."

"I will…I always do."

I stood ramrod straight and just as still for another moment before daring to approach the dresser where I was sure my cane lay. I felt around, all the while listening as Christine's breath steadied in sleep.

His voice came once more, and chilled me from my skull to my feet.

"_Sleep overwhelming, peace surrounding_

"_Tranquility reigning_

"_Smiling in slumber, bathed in moonlight_

"_Dreaming of your Angel_."

Was it possible that he had not seen me? Perhaps his hiding place did not permit him the aide of vision. But he had always been able to sense my presence. I continued to fumble for my cane in the dark, as soundlessly as possible. When it became evident that my hands had roamed over every vacant inch of the dresser's wood, my suspicions immediately centered on the Phantom. I was alike in the superstitions of the theatre's residents in that I had grown to blame him for everything.

But of course, I had reason to.

I walked silently from the blackened room and slid through the door. Before closing it, I let my eyes wander in its darkness.

"_Come now, my curious Madame_

"_Haven't your ears had their fill?_

"_Eavesdropping never did suit you_

"_Neither—_"

I whirled on the voice, closing the door with me. "What do you want with my cane?" I hissed.

He wasn't in sight, though. "I am merely having a bit of fun at your expense. It is safely in your flat, where you should be at this hour as well."

I rolled my eyes and turned in the direction of my quarters. "I was not eavesdropping. I am not like you."

His voice followed me. "Must _all_ the haunting be left to me?"

I rounded the corner, keeping my voice low, and not looking for him; I would not give him the satisfaction of my uncertainty. "It is your task to execute, and your amusement to fancy. I am merely a ballet mistress."

"And O.G.'s gracious assistant."

"Assistant, at least."

His soft laughter rained from the rafters as he followed me invisibly through the corridor. "You are not pleased with the duty you requested."

"Pleasure and necessity are not interchangeable."

"A necessity for whom?"

I approached the doorway of my flat and fumbled for the key. "A necessity for you, and for the good of everyone at the Populaire."

"Do you fear for their sakes so much?"

I turned the key. "Sometimes."

He was silent for a moment. I pushed open the door and turned, closing it behind me. His baritone sounded within the room. "Don't you trust me, Madame?"

Of course. It was his nature to arrive in my room before me. He could make a grand entrance even by showing up before anyone else did. I turned back to him and crossed my arms. "Have I not told you already that I must?"

The humoured timbre of his voice from only a moment ago was in jagged contrast to the clear unease across his face. "I want you to trust me, not because you must, but because you feel within you that it is right."

I did not want to broach this matter; not tonight. It required far too much thought, and anything from him that required thought was exhausting. "When have you ever been concerned with what is right?" He clenched his teeth, and I knew what I said was wrong. "I did not mean that. What I want to say is, when have you ever been concerned with what _I_ feel is right? My own convictions are of no importance to you."

That, too, was wrong. "You would do well not to _ever_ think such a thing." His brow was furiously drawn beneath his white half-mask, and he shook his head slightly. "Regardless of who I am—the Phantom, or your Erik—you have always been of utmost importance to me. Never doubt that, Madame."

My heart softened, and I even managed a smile. "I know. I've always known."

"Then never say that again." He, too, crossed his arms, and studied me thoughtfully. "I want you to trust me because you choose to; not because you are forced to by some obligation, or, necessity. I want you to believe that I am trustworthy, and capable of making the right choices."

I returned the scrutinising gaze. "What do you mean?"

He was clearly troubled, and I was both flattered and unsure that he had chosen once again to seek my council—or if not my council, at least my presence. "You are the only soul I know who knows me, who cares for me."

"Christine cares for—"

"But she does not know me." His glowing eyes left mine, and his hands clasped together behind his back. "I have failed you many times…but I have also accomplished much."

"You have."

"Do you trust me with your life? No…does your _heart_ tell you that you can trust me with your life?"

I nodded slowly. "It does now."

"And with Christine's life?"

I inhaled silently. "Where are you going with this?"

"I need you to trust me in all things, Madame Giry. I need it."

The feeling returned; the same feeling that had struck alarms within me while he sang to Christine. "Something is wrong."

"_Nothing_," he started, and paused before continuing more softly, "nothing is wrong. I only need your trust."

I did not know how to answer. His mind was elusive, and his words would never fully betray him. I stood in front of my divan and watched myself in the mirror so I could not meet his eyes, and began to unravel my braid. "Do not make yourself such a mystery when you are with me."

"I have nothing to hide."

I turned sharply to him with a lifted eyebrow, my hair still in my hands.

His shoulders seemed to broaden, and he glared at me menacingly. "I see."

I swivelled back to face the mirror, struggling with the hairpins in my long, light mane. "What do you see?"

"You don't trust me." He turned so that his thick back was to me, and his cape swirled gracefully at his ankles. "There is no winning with you. You are embittered, and untrusting, and I have made you that way. Good night."

I flung myself toward him and caught his elbow. He jerked from me, and his eyes bore holes into my skin. I sighed in vexation. "I trust you. I trust you know what is best for yourself."

"That is not what I need."

"Let me finish," I said, straightening. "I trust that as long as you are at peace with yourself, you know what is best for Christine. I trust that."

He simply stared at me, processing my answer. It seemed to satisfy him, and for that I was grateful—there was not much else I could honestly admit. "Thank you, Madame." His voice deepened, and his eyes fell to my cheekbones. "You have proven yourself to be…a good…assistant." He swung his head in an exasperated gesture and left my room through the invisible seams of the hidden door.

…

**Lefevre**

"There is nothing I can do."

"No, no, _is_ sahmting you can do! You dah manager!"

"One would assume!" I spat at the obnoxious diva.

Like the bird he said she was, she rose to her full height and ruffled her feathers in indignation. "Ma French not so good? You say you _not_-a ma manager?""

I shook my head, bringing my palms up to face her. "No, Signora, I _am_ the manager, I assure you. But some things are simply out of my control." I eyed her wearily. "The laws of nature, or the powers that be, or _what_ have you."

Exasperated, Carlotta pursed her lips and glared helplessly at her husband. Piangi spoke for her. "Neither of us have any idea what you are trying to say."

"Madame Giry," I begged feebly at the fair-haired, angular woman in black.

The ballet mistress raised her hands in forfeit. "This _is not_ my decision; nor is it my quandary."

"Then _you_ explain to him why I can't serve two masters! He likes you."

Piangi scrunched his face, misinterpreting the 'him' I spoke of.

Giry's sharp gaze squared on me with a mere turn of her head. Blast the power of that woman. "You want my council, Lefevre? I give you this alone: you must remember which master's wrath you fear more, Monsieur, and devote yourself to such wholeheartedly."

The two Italians glanced at each other. I ignored them. "Then plainly you say I must choose between the well-being of the Populaire," I motioned with my head toward our leading soprano, "or the well-being of…myself?" At that last ominous statement, both Giry and I threw subtle, apprehensive glances toward the ceiling.

Without looking at me, she responded, "It is your call." With that she stood. "I know which I would choose." And then the woman left my office. I hadn't even dismissed her. Well, naturally! I had no authority whatsoever.

Carlotta's voice was far too loud for my tiny bureau. "Well?"

I was duly sick of the Ghost. Despite Madame Giry's ill-omened warning, he had never once harmed me personally. I had already—bravely, if I do say so myself—defied him by upholding La Carlotta's contract, and for all his threats, he only terrorised her because of it. Defiance had gotten me loads of money thus far, and if I wanted to keep my source of income happy, defiance would do again. I slapped my hands on the desk and brought myself into a standing position to reinstate my position as superior. Unfortunately, the Italians stood as well. I stared both in the eye. "Very well, Signora Giudicelli. The dressing room is yours."

…

**Christine**

It was never all that important to me, anyway.

"Is that all?"

"Yes, yes, that was the last bag."

I didn't have much. In my possession were only clothes, shoes, and gifts from the Angel—books, and trinkets, and such. It was always _his_ desire that I would have the dressing room. When I was much younger, the finery of the chamber made me feel important, and unique, but when I grew to understand the jealousy of the others and how they treated me in turn, all I wanted was to keep my uniqueness to myself and outwardly be just like them. I had a secret, heavenly tutor, and one day they would all know and love me for it, and love him through me. But until then, I wanted nothing more than to avoid their cold, harsh glances and comments.

But the Angel was never content that his student should be shrouded in oblivion.

I wasn't sure how he would react. We had both recovered after making up, and our argument…or ordeal, I suppose, as it wasn't an argument…was not spoken of again. But I feared his anger more than ever, and as fervently as he insisted that he was not upset with me that night, I just couldn't find it within myself to believe him. I had never felt such agony before then, and what confounded me most was that I felt _his_ pain, and not merely my own. I had always been so detached. Now it was almost as if our souls were bound, and regardless of what he said, he couldn't deceive his own soul.

I had never known the Angel to lie to me before that night.

Nevertheless, as I did not like thinking on such things, I knew he was angry now. He hadn't said a word to me about it, for it was very sudden, but I could feel him near me and in my soul I was angry. It wasn't _my_ anger, of course, but I felt it at any rate. The Angel was not pleased, not at all, that the dressing room was being given away.

_Die Zauberflöte_ had only been performed a handful of nights, and we still had the majority of the season to complete…thank goodness. It kept the other girls on their feet and preoccupied, much too preoccupied to focus their attentions on me and the humiliating removal of myself from the first-class dressing room. It seemed fair that the reigning Prima Donna should acquire the finest room, where I was merely a member of the ballet and there was no obvious rationale why it should be mine. La Carlotta had done a great deal for this theatre. _Die Zauberflöte_ was a smashing hit, and still sold out, and it was due to her extravagance on the stage. I still envied her, though the Angel assured that I had no reason in the world to.

The room was empty. Glancing around me to make sure of it, I walked about its floor slowly, touching the walls and gracing my fingers over the pictures that adorned them. Memory after memory came drifting back to me, and suddenly I was extremely saddened. Each caress of the wallpaper, each stroke of mahogany wood and magenta velvet against my fingertips, deepened this feeling. This was where I first heard the Angel. And the dressing room which had meant so little to me before became at once a very cherished and very intimidating thing.

I halted my slow sweep of the room at the mirror. It was such a grand structure, with its silver reflection and frame of detailed gold. There was not another mirror like it in the Populaire. The ballet dormitories had two full-length mirrors, but each were of such a size and shape that only one at a time may look into it. This mirror provided an ethereal glimpse of the whole of the rosy room, as if it were another world entirely beyond the glass—a world that disguised itself as natural and lovely, but where everything was truly backward and strange, where faeries were really imps and ugly was actually beautiful. I was always fascinated with mirrors. _How very arrogant that makes me sound!_ I mused, but it was not the reflection of myself that fascinated me. It was the idea that mirrors actually weren't all that they seem.

Sadly I stared into my eyes, and a chill ran the length of my spine. I had my father's eyes, there was no doubt of it. I had most of his face. Time had done its best to try and erase his memory from me, but I fought against it, and would constantly look upon his fading pictures and memorise every detail of his lovely face. It was funny how the images you were most fond of would fleetingly try to escape you, but those you wished to forget forever shared the deepest intimacy with your memory. The most vivid and clear recollection I had of my father was the last glimpse I had of his face—white, and cold, with blue lips and a drawn brow and a frightened curve of his mouth. I had been so young, so unbelieving that death would truly claim him. And then, Death captured his soul from right underneath my eyes, and I was helpless against it.

I shuddered.

The doors creaked open, and I turned toward them, my heart pounding. Two men struggled with great chests and baggage of expensive décor, and behind them followed Signor Piangi and Signora Giudicelli. My eyes averted to the carpeting as I sulked along the wall, making toward the doors with the hope of going unnoticed. It didn't work, of course. La Carlotta looked upon me with a lift of her brow to match her arrogant voice, and huffed, "If eet eesn't de manager's favourite!"

My skin was so very white, even the slightest blush could flaunt itself ridiculously. I met the soprano's eyes. She was perhaps twenty years older than me and a great deal taller, but I wouldn't let her intimidate me. Thinking on all of the Angel's comments ascertaining to the woman in front of me, I held my chin high and skirted as gracefully as I could out of the dressing room.

_I hope you enjoy it, you great feathered peacock!_

I grinned and scurried down the corridor, wishing I'd have had the nerve to say it aloud to her face.


	37. This unfortunate resurrection

**Madame Giry**

"Maman!" Marguerite jumped as I entered the room, and flushed as she turned to face me. Christine stared at her wordlessly and folded her hands.

I moved slowly toward her bed where they sat, and I crossed my arms. "Why so flustered, Meg?"

"I'm not flustered!" she said, giving a little laugh and lifting her brow at Christine. Christine said nothing.

"Meg Giry, I do not need the paper, which you so swiftly stole from my flat, to take notice of the tents they are raising outside. Now give it here." I held out my hand expectantly.

Meg pursed her lips sheepishly, and without a word produced the paper from behind her back and released it into my hand. I didn't need to glance at the headlines to know what they heralded. The travelling Gypsy fair was again making its rounds throughout France, and it opened in Paris tonight. Each time, the dregs of humanity exploited their own kind to the morbid curiosities of willing audiences. Each time, I was reminded, at first by bits of gossip and then by the grandiose clamour of the gathered mass outside of the opera house, of that night. And each time, I had to deal with the undying fascination of my young daughter who wanted nothing more than to witness the carnival and all its grotesque appeal for herself.

The paper sported reviews of all forms of entertainment within the proximity. It was a small article and I hadn't bothered to read it after seeing the words "Gypsy Carnival," as I cared nothing for the opinions of one man who couldn't be bothered less by the evils that occurred within the tents. It was, as it was every year, a mere overview of the newest attractions within the fair—Meg's attention was always seized at this.

In the years that I was a ballet student myself and long before it, it was custom for the _ballet de cour_ to attend the Gypsy festival whenever it happened to come about Paris. The autumn of my eighteenth year was my first and only experience, as the tour only frequented us one out of every three years, and for the previous two opportunities I had been either ill or away. From the very moment I stepped into the Gypsy camp, which had erected itself as custom directly behind the Opera, I was filled with what I could only describe as darkness. None of the "exhibits" amused me; in fact, far from it, as I was horrified and sickened at each. Perhaps it was a prelude, or foreshadowing for what was to come next. That night altered my life, irrevocably, for eternity. And thus, I became the severe and unfeeling ballet instructor who severed the long-lasting tradition.

"Maman, Christine and I are old enough to go on our own this year," Meg spoke up, breaking me from my thoughts. Christine shot a glare her way, but my daughter continued. "It really can't be all bad."

"Stop," I said, and held up a hand. Meg's eyes widened and her lips pursed at my sudden gesture. "I will hear nothing more of this Gypsy circus. I have not the energy to explain to you again why I don't want you going near there."

Her little brow furrowed, and she returned, "You just don't like Gypsies."

I opened my mouth to deny it, but it was true. Instead I said, "It is a wicked, disgusting, and corrupt place, swarming of thieves that will charm you with their eyes and rob you with their hands."

Christine watched me intently for a moment before speaking. "Meg," she said quietly, and turned her head toward her friend. "It's a painful memory from which your mother speaks."

I clenched my teeth in concentration, wondering what he had told her.

"Come, Christine!" Meg said, half-joking. "You are supposed to be on my side!"

Instead, the brunette shook her head. "I think it would be unwise."

"Well said, Miss Daae," I commended. I turned back to Marguerite. "We will not have this discussion again."

Meg harrumphed and made a show of reluctant resignation. She was very, very strong-willed; she spoke to me as none of my other girls would ever dare. Perhaps I was lenient in my willingness to put up with her attitude as compensation for my severity of her work schedule. She was my daughter; as such, she was allowed certain liberties, but when matters broached the art, bloody toes and bruises notwithstanding, I pushed her—I wanted excruciatingly for her to have the career I was denied. I loved her, I truly did. The Phantom did not know how much it pained me to keep such secrets from my child, but even if he did, and permitted her to know, I would not tell her. Far be it from me that I would burden Meg's life with such a secret.

In a way, Christine had to bear this—and she did not even know it. She was strong, there was no doubt in my mind. When I allowed myself to think of it, it saddened me to wonder of the girl she might have become had she not been nurtured so ardently under her false Angel's power. At first glance, she would appear naïve, but I could see past that, and the Phantom could as well. Her imagination fueled her trust in her father and her belief in the Angel. At times I marvelled that she still was so deluded, but was it any different that my own daughter believed so insistently in the Ghost I had helped to create? Both he and I did our best to deceive our charges, and neither of us could scoff at their subconscious obedience to our wishes. Christine's mind was not like the minds of the girls around her. I remembered how scarred she was by Gustave's death, and how desperately she clung to his memory. It was the only way she knew how to keep him; she was deceiving herself, and she needn't her Angel's help to be deceived as much he fancied it so.

She was mislead, but she was strong. He claimed that he harnessed her strength, but I suspected, at times, that he suppressed it. I had to trust him, though. I promised him I would—and he was far wiser than myself, in many, many ways.

I gave Meg a last warning look, and smiled a bit in affection, before turning out of the dorms, taking the paper with me. I'd burn it. He'd see it anyway. I'd burn it nonetheless.

The kitchens were bustling with the maids who rushed to clean up after the cooks, and servers who lounged lazily and spoke amongst themselves despite the mass of busy workers around them. There was to be another gala tonight succeeding the performance, accompanied by an extravagant dinner, as the patrons themselves would be attending, as well as an entourage of high-class theatre-owners from Italy who had been informed of Giudicelli's success at the Populaire. No doubt they would be impressed. No doubt they would work to get her back. And no doubt _my_ council would be invoked the next day, as Lefevre honestly was in over his head and really didn't know what to do with such a situation. I sighed. Tomorrow, I would don my wise face, sit with my shoulder's back, and feed him every word he would give to the Italian bargain hunters.

I sidestepped two cooks with great circles of dough, giving them my best glare. Turning around to continue my plight, however, proved even worse. I flattened myself next to the ovens as a cook's aide lost his grip on an open sack of flour. Bringing the paper to my face to shield my eyes and nostrils, I hollered a reprimand at him. The kitchens grew quiet.

Lowering the paper, I surveyed the mess. The soft powder still lingered in a cloud about the ovens, and caked the poor boy's forme in an unrelenting blanket of white. His bright blue eyes peered out from his white face in fear, and a few cooks began to chortle. I looked down at myself. My black dress was black no longer, needless to say. A great dust of white flour had coated the entire front, both cotton and lace, and was smeared against the skin of my neck and bare hands. I turned the paper slowly, deliberately, back and forth, to accentuate the mess he'd made. The front of the paper, where my fingers did not grip it, was also floured generously.

"I's sorry, Madame Giry, truly I is," he sputtered, standing and dusting himself madly, leaving amongst the carpet of flour two slight circles of clear stone floor where his knees had been. "Your dress—"

"Don't bother," I snapped at him, and I slowly surveyed the kitchen. I let my mouth drop and my eyes widen, and I flung out my hands. "Back to work! Is a simple mishap reason enough to drop your tasks? Back to it! The manager would not be pleased."

The cooks blushed as they whirled to their stations and their aides rushed to be of assistance, and the cleaning ladies tackled the floor immediately with their brooms and mops. Even the servers worked frantically to make themselves look busy, and had I not been so annoyed I would have savoured the moment with pride at my eminent authority.

Not even the manager could command them as I could. I was second only to O.G. himself.

I turned back to the hearth and crossed the paper to my other hand, prepared to drop it into the flames. Instead, my hand held it stationary against the heat of the inferno, and my eyes glued themselves to the flour-dusted surface. There were a few untainted marks upon the paper where my fingers had been, much like the two clean spots about the floor where the aide had dropped to his knees. The words where my fingers shielded the text were readable, and extremely clear.

"Devil's Child."

I blinked the flour from my eyelashes, and studied the paper again. The words were there, right there where my index finger gripped it. Slowly I brought it forth from the hearth, and smeared my fingers across the surface of the page, clearing the flour away. I grasped the paper with both hands and fervently read.

"_For the first time since the much-gossiped-of murder of a handler more than two decades since, the Devil's Child attraction has been reinstated. Legend and intrigue will surely draw crowds, but the highly overrated_—"

Two servers fussed over my dress and hair, but I pushed them aside, my eyes throbbing at the words "Devil's Child" over and over again. My mind fought—should I burn it? _Surely he's seen it by now_. Then again, he cared nothing of the news and entertainment of the outside world, and perhaps he didn't busy himself with reading the paper. Image after image of that night struggled for remembrance. There was a new child, another Erik, trapped within the bars of a resurrected circus sideshow. My heart surged with disgust and compassion, and for an instant—for only an instant—I allowed my mind to wander.

_No_, I demanded myself. _I will never, EVER do that again_.

Something, though, had to be done. Not by me. Never by me. It was clear enough in my mind that my maternal need to rescue and force salvation upon the cursed was my weakness, and had always failed me. I was not capable of helping this poor child—this innocent soul that had newly been branded both the offspring of Satan and "highly overrated," as if it were merely a thing to be defined and critiqued by its deformity. My wavering trust in the Phantom strengthened in only a moment's thought, and I knew what I had to do. He knew what it was like—he could help this child. I had to see him. He had to know.

I forced my way past the servants and out of the kitchens, leaving a slight trail of white dust behind my steps. The trail faded after only a few strides, and I turned corners in darkness, my mind taking me toward one of the many hidden entrances to his lair that he'd revealed to me. I had navigated his passageways countless times, but had ventured into his catacombs rarely, and each time he had been directing me, steering our path away from his trapdoors. I trusted my memory well enough to make the journey on my own; I had to see him.

I looked around me, certain that there was no one to witness my disappearance.

One corridor was visible, and it led to the chapel. It was the invisible one, however, that I would take. There were no windows or doors that would allow sunlight into this hall, and the gaslights illuminated only so much. One corner alone was always shrouded in darkness, a darkness so thick that it was nearly impossible to see. I backed into the corner and felt along the wall. My fingers drifted in slight rounded motions over the bricks until I felt it: one unstable brick, loosened just slightly enough for those who knew what to look for to recognise. I rocked the brick free from its notch and held it with one hand while reaching into the vacant spot with my other.

A lever was there, and I pulled on it. A square of stone shifted about the wall in the deep shadows, revealing a hole even blacker than the darkened nook from which it opened. I had exactly fifteen seconds before the hidden counter-wheel would reverse and the square would be returned to its seamless spot in the wall. I forced the brick back into its notch and crawled breathlessly through the hole, standing and feeling for the torch as the stone replaced itself. His genius and mechanisms I would never understand.

Lighting the torch, I moved swiftly down the dank passageway until my eyes could clearly see the grand stairwell ahead.

…

**Meg**

I took both of Christine's hands and set my face in a desperate pout. "Please, Christine?"

My best friend's eyes wouldn't meet my own. "No, Meg."

"But why ever not?" I demanded, feigning anger. "Maman was just trying to scare you with her storeys. It will be great fun!"

Christine shook her head, and her lovely curls shook with it. "I don't want to be disobedient."

"Christine!" I objected. "You have never had any difficulty with disobedience before today. Are you not thinking of all the times we sneak to the kitchens for sweetmeats? And if I recall, I saw you just yesterday tie Lisette's shoes together in knots, which is clearly against Maman's rules."

Christine reddened, and I folded my arms triumphantly. "That's much different!" she protested.

"Of course it's not! It is time for a change. You have always been the one with ideas, and I have always been the one to encourage them. Now I have an idea, and it is your turn to go along with it."

For a moment she smiled. "It was always like that before my father died."

Clearly she wasn't listening to me. "You won't be alone…you'll be with me! You know, you cannot fool Maman much longer—she still thinks of innocent do-gooder Christine."

Her lips pursed as if she were trying to hold back a grin. "But I am!"

I punched her arm playfully. "Please, Christine. It won't hurt anybody! All you need is a bit of encouragement. That's all you ever need."

Her brow furrowed fiercely, and she shook her head again. Was she serious? Was I really not able to convince her this time? "I'm sorry, Meg. This is not like all those other times. I don't want to be disobedient."

I sighed, exasperated, much like Maman always did. "You already said that, and we've already disposed of that argument."

Now Christine folded her arms. "Has it ever occurred to you that maybe it is not your mother's scorn I fear?"

I raised an eyebrow in doubt. "The manager?"

Christine looked down. "No. Never mind that. Meg, really. Wouldn't you rather…I don't know…go through Sorelli's cosmetics in her absence, or something of that nature?"

I let my shoulders drop dramatically. "We did that last month. And Sorelli would be having much too great a time in her _absence_, as you call it, than we will, because she will have snuck out to the carnival!"

Christine stood, hugging her forearms as if she had a chill. She took two steps, and swung back to face me, with a devillish grin about her features. "We could rummage through Carlotta's dresses!" she offered, her voice full of wicked animation. "I still have a key to the closet, and she will be terribly preoccupied with the gala tonight."

For a moment, all thoughts about the carnival were forgotten. "Oh, Christine," I whispered, and she hopped atop my bed, taking my hands. "Do we really dare?"

She nodded wildly, and I noted how her curls bounced around her face doing so. How I wished I had curls like hers! "Of course those extravagant dresses will be far too big for us…well, at least for me, but I daresay you are growing into quite the woman up top." She giggled and I pushed at her. I was terribly self-conscious of my newly developing chest, except, of course, when Etienne flirted with Christine; then I was quite satisfied that I had something physically that she did not.

"All right…wait!" Thoughts of the circus stopped me, and I drew back from Christine, sitting tall, business-like. "I will do this with you under one condition."

"Name it, friend of my heart," Christine teased, dropping her delicate white hand over her hardly-there chest.

I smiled. "We will sneak into your old dressing room tonight, if only you promise that tomorrow we go to the Gypsy circus."

Christine's hand fell, and she turned from me. "Meg, I said no."

"Come now, Christine! You've always been hesitant, but you've never been so final before! You're just like Maman—you just don't like Gypsies."

Christine whirled on me, her eyes flaming. "No, Meg! Gypsies aren't like what we hear about in fairy-tales. The _idea_ of Gypsy life is incredibly attractive—mysterious men and exotic women and clothing all bedecked in gold coins. But in actuality they're thieves, and they are cruel people, worse than murderers!"

"Who says?"

"The An—your mother says. She's been there."

"The who?" I enquired, crinkling my nose.

"Your mother. Madame's been to the Gypsy carnival before, and she would know better than any of us. I trust her; you should too."

I shook my head. "What better way to know for sure than to find out on our own?"

Christine busied herself with her hair at the small mirror. "We should leave for the dressing room now, before it's too late."

"Not unless you agree to go to the carnival…and not now, Christine! Carlotta is surely still in it!"

"Not that one, silly," Christine returned, and she grasped my hands and pulled me from the mattress. "The communal ladies' dressing room. _Die Zauberflöte_ is a mere half-hour away." We walked arm and arm toward the doors. Before exiting, however, Christine lowered her voice and smiled impishly. "We'll discuss our plans for later after the performance."

We giggled and left the dorms.


	38. My Curious Madeleine II

**Madame Giry**

I stood in the centre of his lair, my arms tightly crossed. He wasn't here. Christine was, though. She was simply everywhere. It still unnerved me, though I had been greeted by her many faces, in many different mediums, each time he brought me here. I had never fully explored his domain, as whenever I was here it was for matters of business alone. The Phantom was not here to stop me, though; if he was, he would have intercepted me by now.

Slowly I walked the circumference of the shore, letting my footsteps ring out over the surface of the water. His gondola was not easy to steer, but I had done it. Just the fact that his gondola was waiting at the foot of the great stair meant that he was up above, and he had used it. I felt safe to walk freely in his home, though my experiences with him wouldn't let me wholly abandon caution as I once might've.

I walked the gleaming steps and laid the newspaper carefully atop his beautiful organ. A leather binding caught my eye, and golden text glinted in the firelight. Carefully I picked it up. "Don Juan," I read aloud. Underneath was a symbol—I studied it. It appeared to be the letters _O_ and _G_, intertwined. I smirked, and then wondered at its existence. Opening it slowly, I found music inside. There wasn't a great deal, at least not as much as the leather case boasted to hold. I flipped through the pages, greatly tempted to try and play what little I understood of the music, but I was not sure where the damper was located. His organ was loud without it, and could be heard by the entire opera house. No one would believe that the fumbling notes I could produce would have come from the Phantom and his talented hand.

I closed the book and laid it gently back in its place.

The great cavern branched off into smaller corners and appendages that I guessed served as separate chambers. One I recognised as a water-closet. I grinned to myself—of course he would have one. He was only human, after all. It was deeper back than any of the other chambers, no doubt for reasons of style. Inside, there was an ornate sink, and a chamber pot, and an actual tub—a beautiful tub, far larger and more expertly crafted than even the tub I used while living with Armande. It was ivory white, with gold lining to match the sink, and at its sides and on its legs were carved images of Angels and gargoyles. Beneath it was a furnace, and I marvelled over the genius of it: instead of bringing buckets and buckets of heated water from a stove, why not heat the water where it stood above a furnace? There was a mirror above the sink, and it was uncovered—this surprised me, as every other mirror in his home was hidden by a thick drape.

For a moment I wondered, a bit horrified, over his use of the water-closet, and where he emptied his chamber pot. Certainly not into the lake—no, of course not. The water was surely unsanitary as it was, but he would not have let me touch it had he…

My fears were put to rest. Further back in the chamber was a round, gaping crevasse with shadows as black as velvet. It surely plunged deep into the ground and deeper into oblivion. I smiled. No one would ever need know that the Opera Ghost had need of a water-closet, and the tasks of human being.

The other rooms did contrasting things to my curiosities—some sated, and others ignited. One room was stacked entirely of nothing but fabric, material of every sort—satin, silk, velvet, cotton, lace, wool, chiffon, gauze, and everything else. He did not make his own clothing. He sent me (and a purse healthy with coins) to a tailor with his measurements and specifications. I was not sure why at all he would need so much fabric. Did he even know the art of sewing well enough to produce anything wearable from his material?

Another room answered that question. It was filled, top to bottom, with books, of ever genre and author. On the table was a great variety of texts concerning sewing and costume design, and by the look of the pages he had worn them out with concentrated reading. I smiled, thinking of him then, pricking himself with a needle, or twisting himself up in the thread of a spinning wheel. Those were images of the man I loved, because I _did_ love Erik, and wished hopelessly I could see more of him.

I let the smile fade as reality dampened my wishes, as it so often did. I was not one to entertain fancies, after all.

The third room was his music room, I supposed, where he stored a grand variety of instruments and even more music than I had seen scattered about his lair. Tuning utensils lay useless over half-finished music sheets, and the whole of the room was in disarray except for his instruments, which were neatly, with utmost care, rested atop cushions of velvet or inside decorative cases. Gustave's violin I recognised, and it seemed to hold a place of honour amongst the rest: it was granted a pedestal, and a curtain, and below it hung a portrait of M Daae himself. The last time I had seen the violin had been in my flat, before he stole it. Gustave had asked that I give it to Christine on her sixteenth birthday; I would never have that chance.

I crossed the lair to the other side, again surveying carefully to make certain that he had not returned. More rooms lay half-hidden on the right side of the cavern. The first I came across was surely his bedchamber; that I did not enter. The man was allotted some privacy as far as I was concerned, at least. Through the curtain I could vaguely see a bed with crimson sheets and frame of some outrageous nature, but I did not stop to study it. I was yet feeling guilty enough. _Guilty, Madeleine? He owes his life to you, and you deserve to know all._

That thought did not compel me to enter his room, still. Confidence was easy to feign; not so easy to become.

I found with every passing moment that I was continually fascinated by him, and even more now that the character of his humanity was becoming clearer. I had never fully known the child, though he knew everything about me. _No…he is not a child. He is a man_. Now I wanted to lurk inside of his head as he did mine, and discover everything about him that I had missed, all of those years, until he was no longer such a mystery.

The next room was his art room. Paints and charcoal and ink lined the shelves of a great unorthodox case, and off to the side was a pitcher of clay and a hearth, where he certainly created his Opera miniatures. I had not seen them—I guessed they were in his bedroom—but he had told me of them years before, before I was married, when we were the best of friends. Blank canvases were stacked against each-other, and a half-finished painting was propped exquisitely against a stand. It was, naturally, Christine. He had completed her face and arms, but her dress he had not even begun. Atop her head she wore flowers. _Wait_…I looked again. They were not only flowers. Light pencil sketches that had yet to be filled in with painted colour revealed a veil, that circled her form. It looked nearly like a wedding veil.

My brow knit together as I studied the picture again. Sighing in resignation, I left his art chamber and fixed my sight on yet another small cavern—far smaller than the rest of them. It was shielded by a thick scarlet curtain, adorned in golden fringe. Glancing over my shoulder once again, I moved silently toward it, wondering at what he would hide so deeply below the earth, where his privacy was protected by everyone but myself. I had noticed the curtain the last time I had been down; it had never been there before, and the chamber it now covered had always been empty. Whatever it was that was behind the curtain, it was something he did not want me to see.

My indignation flared again, and my thoughts concerning confidence before now challenged my pride. "He shan't hide anything from me," I demanded at no one, and marched purposefully at the scarlet mass. My fingers closed around its velvety thickness, and I pulled it aside.

Most Holy Virgin!

My hands went to my heart, and I dropped the curtain, stumbling backwards. It was a body, a body behind the curtain, and it was alive—I was sure of it. Its eyes had been open, and it was standing upright. But no sound came from within the little chamber. "Come out!" I demanded, moving toward it again, my heart pounding heavily against my hand. Slowly I drew the curtain aside again.

It was not a body—it was a mannequin. I recognised the shape and the attachable limbs to be of the same style as the mannequins the seamstresses utilised. No doubt it was one of their own. The beginnings of a dress clung to the figure, a wedding dress. White and sprinkled with flowers and beads and hung with slight ruffles and lace. There were only the sleeves and the torso—the skirt and the train were absent, as it was unfinished. But these details I only noticed for an instant. The face on the mannequin transfixed me. It was of papier-mâché, and fitted atop the mannequin's neck, and it had no hair. But it was a face I recognised, and it filled me with dread as I looked again at the half of the wedding dress.

It was Christine.

The entire head had been painted the pale cream colour of Christine's skin, and her full lips were a subtle pink, and her cheeks blushed delicately with life. Her tiny birthmark rested there below the right corner of her mouth, and her dimples complemented the edges of her smile. Her eyebrows were set high above her cheekbones as Christine's were, and the soft angles of her jaw were expertly moulded into her very likeness. At first glance, it had appeared her eyes were open. Now I saw that she had no eyes—they were cavernous black holes into the interior of the head. The image chilled me, from my skull all the way down my spine.

It had no hair, and it had no eyes, but it was Christine, and scarily so.

And he had her in a wedding dress.


	39. The Angel sees, the Angel knows

**Madame Giry**

I stood there for several minutes, my mind contemplating every excuse as to why my Opera Ghost was creating a wedding dress for the life-size doll of his fourteen-year-old ingénue, but even as I reminded myself to trust him I felt a glowing, infernal anger well up within my ribcage. He lied to me when he promised he could overcome his lust. He lied to me. All along, he had been planning on taking the girl as his wife, to fulfil his fantasies and satisfy his desire. He lied to me. The fool lied to me!

A deep sloshing brought me from my thoughts. My arm ached from holding the curtain aside, and I let it drop, turning angrily, deliberately, to face him. He was submerged to his thighs in the frigid water, moving through it as if it were the simplest task in the world, as if he were completely oblivious to the chill. The chill that he didn't feel, though, raced down my bones at the sight of him, in his incredulity and evident, evident confusion.

For once, though, his anger did not scare me.

"What are you doing?" he cried, and I noticed that he wore no cape—he was clad in only his black trousers and a loose burgundy shirt. His mask, his frightening white half-moon, was not nearly as intimidating as the visible half of his face, which was contorted with bewilderment. The green glow of his eyes had darkened with the blue of night…or perhaps it was the grey of a storm. I put my hands on my hips, directing myself to match his rage, as he yelled at me again. "What do you _think_ you are doing, coming here without my guidance? You could have been killed!"

"I wasn't."

"You should have been!" he growled, shoving at his gondola needlessly as he sloshed his way onto shore. "It would slay your insatiable curiosity and rid _me_ of an unnecessary burden!"

"_I_ am the burden to _you_, Monsieur?" I retorted, marching one stride toward him. "You never _once_ told me that I was not allowed to come to this place without your permission."

"Do I _need_ to be so blatant with you? I thought you had a head on your shoulders, woman!" he snarled, flinging water along his path as he stormed toward me. I stood straight. "You will _never_ do this again, is that clear?"

"You have no right to speak to me in such a tone!" I reprimanded, wishing more than anything that I was taller than him in inches as I was older than him in years. "My entire life has been slave to your existence for longer than _anyone_ else would put up with you! You owe me the truth at least."

"I have never given you anything but the truth," he spat, throwing his hand in exasperation. "It is you who has lied to me, Madame, and nothing else!"

"_I_ have lied to _you_?"

"You swore to me that you trusted me. That was a lie."

I gasped in outrage, right in his face. "I never lied—I did trust you. I was a fool, an idiot, to trust you, but I did, and I have that!" I flung my gaze backward to the curtain, and stepped aside, pointing to it. "But what have you? Lies, only, and to _me_. To _me_, Erik, to me!"

"I hate that name!" he cried, and he moved past me, tearing the curtain aside. "What does this prove, Madeleine?"

I bit my tongue—I called _him_ by _his_ name, and thus I could not reprimand him for calling me by mine. Instead, I could get under his skin in a different way, one I knew would hurt. "You are very knowledgeable of the Bible. You have read the storey of David and his adulterous enthrallment with Bathsheba, have you not? His lust lead to a lie, and it has done to same to you! His sin of a lie—a simple lie!—lead to a thousand different sins, each consequently worse in nature."

He whirled on me, and I knew I was successful. He was a dark enigma, one I could never hope to understand, amidst his fixation with religion, for it was not faith at all, as I had. His knowledge of the Bible and his grudge against God was an obsession of his, one I could use to my advantage. "Why do you speak to me of lust, Madame, and lies? Tell me!"

For a moment my resolve dithered. He had said nothing to me about the mannequin upon entering his lair—his only anger had been expressed that I had come down without his approval. If he was hiding something there, surely he would have alluded to it. _Am I really that mistaken?_ I pointed again to the wedding dress. "What are your intentions with Christine?"

"They are nothing more than that which you already know."

"Then explain your reasoning for adorning her with a wedding dress!"

The Phantom's storming eyes brewed for another few seconds, and then he blinked and in them I saw arrogance, and a dark streak of humour. A blink! He could transform so quickly! He sauntered toward me, making a show of lowering his gaze to meet mine. "Is it jealousy, Madame, that turns you so quickly against me?"

I let my mouth drop in disgust, but at the same time my heart quickened its pace. "Jealousy!" I exclaimed, unsure if I should take a step backward or a step toward him; I opted to stand still. I clenched my fists. My palms were warm, and moist. "Do you so easily mistake genuine concern for jealousy?"

His devastating smirk remained clear on his face, and half of his mouth turned up underneath the mask. "Or is it that you so easily mistake genuine jealousy for concern?"

My pulse pounded in my temples. He was not angry with me now, but he still acted the predator. My mind flew desperately backwards to the last time he had such a glint in his eye, and his horrible, dangerous reaction replayed itself across my thoughts. More than that, though—also reliving in my mind were my own thoughts then, the familiar heat coursing through my body at the mere touch of his hands, the gentle and harsh whisper of his voice. Shocked at myself, I blinked these thoughts away, and focused on the wedding dress. "You think far too highly of yourself. I could never be jealous of your student, who has inflamed your lust—simple lust!—and bent your thoughts on _marriage_. Did you entertain such fantasies when it was only me?"

I clamped my jaw down on my tongue, stunned that I had let that thought slip. _You are a fool, Madeleine. Keep your wandering thoughts to yourself._

The Phantom's eyes widened in actual surprise, and he grinned maliciously. "Which of us is entertaining fantasies now?" I opened my mouth to protest, my embarrassment dousing the spark that had sprung, so unbidden, into my awareness. Before I could say a thing, his hand caught mine, and he lowered his face to it, pressing the lightest of kisses to my knuckles. His fingers stroked my wrist and he pulled me several inches closer. I had thought the spark had been doused—now it threatened to ignite into a real flame. I had to fight it, or it would end the same as last time. And last time had scared me more than anything else in my life.

"Please let me go," I said, forcing my voice from my constricted throat, but it emerged as little more than a husky whisper.

"Is that what you want?" he returned, his voice matching my own and tickling my hand with its vibrations, and my eyes closed. I forced them back open, then, and thought of how I would answer him. Before I could, he released my hand and stepped back, and drew in a shaky breath. "I'm sorry," he said, and met my eyes. "I am sorry, Madame. I was not thinking." His lips remained parted, and his gaze swept over my chin and throat, and he quickly averted his eyes. He shook his head, and turned back to the curtain, leaving me reeling where I stood. "What you saw in there is not what you assume. It is merely a costume, one I intend for Christine to wear in an upcoming production." Without looking at me still, he motioned to the chamber that held the mountains of fabric. "I have begun several costumes, and plan to create several more, as my own work would suit her more than anything my seamstresses could produce. And Christine would appreciate the personal touch, I believe."

My heart began to slow its pace as I listened to his explanation, and if I was not humiliated enough, I realised my awful mistake. "Oh…naturally." I fought to find words. "I saw the painting, and then the dress, and I assumed…I did assume."

"Think nothing of it," he replied, and he absently began to straighten the scattered music about his organ. It puzzled even me, that his calm and nonchalant attitude toward my immature conclusions bothered me. Though it was much more dangerous, I handled my own embarrassment much better when he exploded in anger—because then I could explode back in his face, and I would not have to think on my mistake, as I did now.

But no. This was better, no matter what my pride suffered. Suffering the pride was far less painful than suffering the body, and the heart.

One thought still nagged at me. "These costumes…how can you be sure they will fit her when she is ready to perform?"

A pause, and he returned, "Perhaps she will be ready sooner than you think."

I looked down, though his back was still to me. I was an idiot to doubt him, a scoundrel to accuse him, and I knew it now. It was maddening, that in his presence I could be entirely confident and authoritative in one moment, and then be reduced to a humbled, submissive mess the next. Thank Heaven he was the only soul in the world to see that side of me. Then again, I would almost rather that the whole world would see that side if he didn't have to.

I straightened. The reason I was ever such a childish dolt in his presence was because of thoughts like that. I placed far too much importance on his opinion than he was worth, and it was exhausting.

His hand stilled about his music. "What is this?" he asked, turning to me, the paper I had brought with me in his hand. Just as abruptly, he dropped the paper to the floor and stared at his fingers, which were smeared with flour. Oh, how could this be worse? I looked down at myself again, and was reminded, for the first time since I had arrived, that I was covered in the stuff.

The Phantom's gaze left his fingers and fixated themselves upon me. Our vexation with one another had blinded us both to the mess that was made of my clothing. His face brightened in a real, amused smile, and he began to laugh. "Madame, what did you do?"

Fortunately, I was not a furious blusher, no matter how embarrassed I could become on the inside. "I was in the kitchens," I explained, dignified as possible, "and a bumbling busboy dropped a sack of flour."

He shook his head, his grin wider than I had seen it in…I was not certain how long. "Surely you didn't let him get away with that."

I rolled my head to the side, and felt the beginnings of a smile set into my features. "Under usual circumstances, I would have surely struck him with my cane, but I was…preoccupied." I suddenly remembered my purpose for coming. "The paper—you dropped it." I moved toward him as he leant to pick it up. He never bent; he always leant. Everything he did was with panther-like grace. "I was going to burn it; that was why I was in the kitchens. But I couldn't…I read it first, and I had to show you," I said carefully.

He was still amused, and thus he went about reading the page with his smile still in-tact. It vanished quickly. Staring into his eyes as he read, my heart began to tear a little. I was not inside his head, but I knew what was; I knew he was reliving every moment of that night as I had, of the three years that preceded it. I knew he was reliving every moment of his life.

I didn't say a word.

The Phantom's jaw set itself, and his left eyebrow furrowed as fiercely as the crease on his mask where his right brow was hidden. His eyes looked away from the paper, and he strode heavily toward the shore. I stepped back; he passed without seeing me. Throwing it into the lake, he lifted the oar of the gondola and plunged it into the centre of the paper, forcing it to the floor beneath the water, and stood there, for several moments, in silence.

From my place beside the steps of the organ, I watched him. His muscles were tense, extremely so, beneath the white gauze of his shirt. I could see the back of his head, and I only wished I could be inside of it, or that I could put my arms around him to comfort him. Instead, I stood where I was. I was afraid of touching him again, after the brief and ridiculous ordeal of only a few moments ago. "What are you going to do?" I chanced at the silence, wondering if he could even hear me.

He was quiet for another moment before responding. "I am going to kill them."

It was only intelligent that I should have been prepared for that, but I was not. Fighting off a chill, I continued. "You cannot do that."

He said nothing; he was too intent on forming his plan.

"No. Listen to me." I had to stop him. "You will not murder again. You will never murder again. I showed you this because I want you to help the child—that is all. Killing his keepers will not help him. You once told me that Lombardi's death did not give you what you wanted." I knew he was listening, now, and I had to be very careful with what I would say. Slowly I walked toward him, soothing him with my voice as I knew I could. "You will force your own life on this child if you do this. Think this through; think it through wisely. I trust you. I doubted you, and I was wrong to. I trust you now, and I trust that you can do this the right way." I rested a hand on his back, between his shoulder blades. The mother in me conquered the woman, thank Heaven, and no spark was ignited between our contact.

He turned, and for a moment I thought I saw his eye glisten with a tear. "What would you have me do?"

I stared at him squarely. "That is your call, Er—Monsieur." My hand tingled.

He shook his head, smiling a little, mirthlessly. "It would be fruitless to stop yourself. I have been Erik ever since I came down here. That is why I advanced on you in such a way."

My heart fluttered a little at this, but I wasn't sure what it meant.

"He's been fighting for control of this body relentlessly. I have to give him what he wants, at times." He smiled at me, fondly, sadly. "Do not worry. I won't kill the child's handlers, as much as I want to. The Phantom will make sure of that."

I searched his eyes fervently. "Who is it, though? I no longer understand: is it Erik who kills, or is it the Phantom?"

Again, he shook his head. "I don't know. I have never truly known. But I believe it is neither—we have both come to an agreement that it is neither on his own, but it is when Erik and the Phantom are in conflict and struggle against each other that I put others in danger." He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "The Phantom is stronger than Erik…and that is why I have given him control, because he is relentless. Erik, at least, is less stubborn. At times." A shallow, shuddering gasp went through him, and he tried to hide it. "The Phantom is more angered by Erik than by anyone else…more angered by him than by Buquet, or Lombardi, and the world, or even by you." He pursed his lips. "Which makes no sense at all…even _he_ knows that Erik is a good man."

The man was truly an enigma. I would never be sure if it was two different men that shared his body, or if he was possessed by an evil spirit, or if, as I was most convinced, he was just plainly at war with himself. He was a genius, and he was, in some essence of the word, insane as well. And yet he went on. And I helped him to.

"I will help him escape," he said at last. "The child. I will show him myself, and tell him what has become of me…and I will make sure of it that it never happens to him, the way it did to me." He paused. "I am not certain how, yet. But I will be."

I smiled, and took his hand to squeeze it for encouragement. He stiffened, though, and I released it. It made sense to me now; the Phantom feared human contact unless he needed it more than he feared it, or unless he invoked it. Instead, I smiled at him, with as much pride and trust as I could muster—I knew how much he depended on my belief, and in that way I was sure I could help him. "Thank you, Erik."

He returned the smile, and nodded his head a little. "Thank you too, Madame." For a moment we stood in mutual affection for one another, and then he straightened, touched his mask to make certain that it was in place, and moved toward the gondola. "Now, Madame, we will make certain rules clear. You are never, ever, to come down to my home without my permission. If you do so, I will ascertain that you do not trust me, and you will widen the rift in our association by your own doing."

I let my eyes roll imperceptibly and followed him to the gondola…careful to blame the sudden racing of my heart on the chill of the water.


	40. Roses and kisses and stolen dresses

**Christine**

"Shhh," I whispered, fumbling with the narrow silver key as Meg struggled not to giggle. "We can laugh all we want when we're inside."

She obediently clamped a hand over her pursed lips, but to no avail, as she snorted silently into her palms. I grinned widely as the door swung open, and we crept into the darkness of the dressing room like two spies. The door closed behind us. I could hardly see a thing, and for a second I felt myself subconsciously reaching out for the Angel's presence…but he was not with me this evening.

A match struck with a hiss, and a candle was lit. My heart leapt within my chest and I spun toward the light. "Meg! You frightened me!"

She gave me a quizzical look between her giggles and said, "Christine, really! It's only a candle—would you prefer the dark?" The question made me pause, but before I could return with a comical answer to cover my unease, she set her lips and blew it out.

The both of us shrieked and grabbed at each other's hands, caught in the intrigue of the moment. Meg relit the candle and placed it in the centre of the dresser, and its flame and the reflection of it illuminated the room quite nicely. I turned to her and clasped my hands together. "Lock the door…quickly."

She skipped back, listening at it for a second's time, and locked it. I watched the flickering of the candle in the mirror. When I turned back to my best friend, she was already at the closet, running her hands over the plentiful dresses.

I joined her. "This would be a fantastic colour on you," I said, pulling a great pink and gold number into my arms, giddy that I had such access to La Carlotta's finery! "It matches the dressing room, in fact."

Meg gathered the dress into her arms, burying her face in its length. "What shall you try first?" she asked. For a moment I surveyed the contents of the closet with my eyes, until my eyes were caught, and I took for myself a darker magenta and crimson dress and smiled into its lacy neckline. Meg crinkled her nose. "But Christine, surely the light blue one is far more your style."

I pondered it for a moment. The light blue was the feeling of a sky sprinkled with tiny clouds—a happy feel, but perhaps a bit dull. "Don't you like the dark colours?"

"Well," she replied, "yes, for Carlotta, maybe…but I think you are far more sunshine than she is, at any rate."

Sunshine. Sunshine in a blue sky, sprinkled with clouds. Sunshine wasn't dull, not at all…but the deep red of the one that caught my eye seemed to laugh with secrets. _Laugh with secrets_. It rang poetic. After a moment I lifted my shoulders in a shrug, returned the dress, and opted for the light blue Meg had suggested. "I suppose the other just reminded me of…well…roses."

Slipping out of our dressing gowns, we were both in merely our undergarments. "You remind me much more of lavender…or lilies. I wouldn't say roses." Meg stepped into a portion of the extravagant dress, her face visibly cringing at the itchy feel of the wiry lace. "What flower would you liken me to?"

Helping myself into the pale blue gown, I studied her. "A daffodil, of course."

"Because of my hair," she added. "That's what I would have thought, too."

I thrust my arm through a frilly pastel sleeve. "But wouldn't it be far more beautiful to be thought of as a rose?" A memory of the rose-petal scent of my Angel drifted past my nose—he was not here with me, but thoughts of him always were.

Meg shrugged, but I could see in her eyes that she had something to say. It did not take her long—it never did. How I loved my spirited friend! "Roses distress me, you know, Christine. Don't you know who roses represent?"

For a moment I paused; roses represented my Angel, of course, but I could not tell her that. "Who?"

"Why, the Phantom of the Opera, of course," she stated through clenched teeth as she bit her sleeve to force her hand through.

A chill scurried down my spine. "Oh, yes," I agreed, a bit puzzled that such a thought could escape me. And then, a bit puzzled that both Angel and O.G. were represented in our minds by roses. I supposed it was natural that Meg would first associate a rose with the Ghost and I my Angel, for we both had our fascinations. Ghosts were of far less interest to me than Angels, and Meg did not believe in the Angel of Music. Therefore it was expected that our different minds should come to different conclusions.

Meg smiled a bit nervously. "Secretly, roses do frighten me," she confided. "Or perhaps, excite me. Whenever I see one, I always think of the Opera Ghost, and think that perhaps he had been there…and then I never know if I should run, or if I should linger, and see if I can catch a glimpse of him."

I forced a smile. "Meg, you forget just how terrified of him you always become. What would you do if you were to come face-to-face with him?"

"Help me with my laces?" I glanced down at my own half-way donned dress and smiled, moving to fumble with her ties. "I'm not sure, really," she continued. "I would want to scold him for scaring us so often, of course! But I think if my nerves failed me, I could only stare—stare, and say nothing."

I pulled the laces tight. "What do you suppose he looks like?"

"I've told you before, Christine—he's all bones, and he wears evening dress!"

"What do you suppose he looked like before he became a ghost?"

Meg paused, and turned to face me. "You know, I've never really given that one much thought." A brief grin brightened her golden features—like sunlight spilling on a daffodil. "In fact, I never really guessed that he was perhaps a man before he was the Ghost! But all ghosts were alive once, so it only makes sense!"

"Perhaps he was handsome, and Joseph Buquet is jealous," I teased.

Meg giggled happily. "Perhaps Buquet killed him, and _that_ is why Maman says the Ghost is going to get him some day."

At once I felt alarmed. "I do not wish to speak so lightly of the Phantom." I shuddered. "He scares me more than he scares you."

"But you always are so brave when we're around the other girls."

I smiled. "I only pretend." And it was true. I was full of pretenses. As much fun as stealing into Signora Giudicelli's dressing room had turned out to be, it took a great deal for me to ever have the gut to do it—and I only ever did such a thing to spare myself from something even worse. In this case, the Gypsy carnival.

When I was a small child, I was only ever "brave" for the same reason—it was always the easiest of two paths to take. I remembered the fancy days with Raoul's family and his little social circle of elite heirs and heiresses. Father had brought me up with so many stories, it was _always_ easy to create such plans of havoc and fun! But because I was the impoverished violinist's daughter, the one without money or prestige, I was the one they thought had nothing to lose, and therefore the ideas I gave them, the ones they loved so much, became also my quandary to carry them out.

Raoul always cherished our friendship, but I was forever so intent on being accepted by his wealthy friends, I would step headfirst into these situations that were the fault of my own imagination. I could secretly, lightly, blame Raoul for getting us into those messes, but it was always Raoul who would get us _out_ of trouble.

"Let me help you, Christine." Meg turned, her bodice securely tightened, and began to string mine up as well. The overwhelming pungency of wine and Carlotta's Italian perfumes mushroomed into my nostrils, and I closed my eyes, feeling as each lace was pulled taught across my back. It was now naught but a fantasy…but one day, this would be real. I would have two maidservants fluffing my sleeves and tying my bows, and a third tousling my hair into stage-worthy perfection, and I would be closing my eyes like this, anticipating the performance that blossomed only moments away. My head would be taller and my shape more curvaceous, but above all, I would have the voice of an Angel to level the audience in their seats, and the songs of another Angel to softly congratulate me, in a tone only I could hear; and I would smile, then, and think of Father, and he would smile back.

"There." I spun delicately toward Meg, and curtsied. We both turned at once toward the grand mirror.

I supposed Meg's dress fit her better than mine did, but it was clear just how ridiculous we looked. Neither of us had even given thought to the wire-rimmed petticoats and whale-bone corsets that were necessary for such extravagance. The finely tapered waists hung loose about our bodies, and the trains of each dress pooled in ruffles at our feet. The sleeves bunched at our elbows in their length, and the great necklines of each bodice lay awkward against our chests.

We met each other's gazes in the tall mirror and doubled over in laughter.

"The gloves," I cried through a mirthful heave. "Where are the gloves?"

We wrenched open the drawers of the dresser, rummaging through folds of stockings and scarves, until two pairs of gloves that matched each dress were found. Still giggling, we drew them over our arms.

"_Buona notte, il tesoro...li ringrazia, grazie..._"

I slammed the dresser drawer shut and twirled. Meg was staring with horror at the grand doors. The candlelight flickered ominous.

Without another word, we bolted in opposite directions. "Here!" I hissed at Meg, and I threw myself into Carlotta's hamper amidst worn costumes and nightwear. Meg flung herself on top of me, pressing my face into yards of unwashed fabric. I caught a strange whiff of sweat and perfume.

We lay still.

The door opened, and the diva's voice continued to coo. Ubaldo Piangi was with her. Two kisses were made, and with my flawed knowledge of Italian I understood that he was merely waiting for her to discard her costume.

The door closed, leaving Piangi out and locking La Carlotta and her maidservants in with us.

After a passing of twenty minutes of broken French, pompous demands, tears, and spontaneous bursts of exaggerated song, Meg and I were inconspicuously blanketed by numerous undergarments and Pamina's elaborate gown.

And then more…and more…and more….

Perhaps she had raked through her entire closet to find something to wear for the evening's gala. But at the end of twenty minutes, the room was a great deal quieter, and the hamper, with us still in it, was rolling toward the door.

Meg found my hand and squeezed it.

We rolled through chilly halls as the two maidservants chatted amongst themselves. I wasn't sure whether to be nervous or giddy at our circumstance, or where we'd end up, but I knew such an ordeal would satisfy Meg enough that we could avoid the carnival.

My Angel would be quite cross with me if I should ever choose to go.


End file.
